Rama's Inkwell

*Episode 1: The Man infront of me

It was the longest night of my life.

The generator had cut out an hour ago. Only the streetlights and the moon lit the cracked sidewalk in front of Palm Grove Cemetery. I stood there in awe, lost in my thoughts, clutching a plastic bag of cold cassava bread and fried fish I never got to eat.

No. That’s impossible.

Because the man I married is nowhere near Monrovia.

James Mulbah flew to Accra 3 days ago for his uncle’s funeral. He texted me this morning: _“Flight delayed. Won’t be back till Friday. Don’t wait up, love.”_ I believed him. I always believed him. For 4 years of marriage, that was my job.

But again… the person in front of me looks exactly like my husband.

Same broad shoulders. Same scar above his left eyebrow from the motorcycle accident in 2019. Same way he tilts his head when he’s confused. He’s standing across the street, talking to a woman I’ve never seen. She’s laughing. Touching his arm. He’s smiling. The smile he only gives me after I make his favorite *torbogi*.

My chest caved in. I wanted to walk up to him and just say hi, so he’d know that I saw him. So he’d know that Kemah Mulbah isn’t invisible.

But the shock had dawned on me that my legs felt heavy to move. Like they were rooted into the Monrovia dust. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

*James:* _“Just landed in Accra. Miss you already ❤️”_
Timestamp: 8:02pm. Right now.

Across the street, “James” looked up. His eyes met mine through the darkness. For half a second, he froze. Then the woman pulled him by the hand and they turned the corner into a yellow guesthouse I’ve passed a hundred times and never noticed.

The generator roared back to life. Streetlights blazed. And I was left standing there, cassava bread going cold, with two impossible truths:
1. My husband was in Accra.
2. My husband was just here, with another woman.

I pressed my phone to my chest and whispered to no one: “James… who are you?”

*To be continued…*
_Episode 2: “The Yellow Guesthouse” drops tomorrow 8pm._