“What did you hope for? That she would put a ring through my nose the way Angela has put a ring through yours?”
A mere four months ago, in December, he’d married Angela Lipscomb, Dahlia’s best friend. He met her at Dahlia and Kofi’s wedding. They had a baby on the way in a few months.
Andres laughed. “Yes, and that you would love every minute of it. Falling in love and being with the person you love is the best feeling in the world. It makes you willing to do anything to hold on to that high.”
Wasim rubbed his hand over the cub’s head and ears, but didn’t reply.
“You don’t have to answer me, but I have to ask—is this real?”
Wasim paused. “What do you mean?”
“You and Imani.”
“As real as ever,” he replied evenly.
“That’s not an answer.”
“You have doubts because…why, exactly?”
“The timing, I suppose. But maybe I’m wrong.”
Wasim’s gaze shifted to where the adult lions now lazed in the sun. “Imani has all the qualities I want in a wife.”
“And she understands the demands that come with that position, which makes her a good fit. I’m happy for you, if this is what you want.”
“This is what I want,” Wasim said firmly.
“Then I wish you both the best.”
“Thank you.” He had a feeling they would need it.
7
What a day!
Imani hurried into the embassy and removed her white face mask. She felt grimy and dirty. Today had been a particularly scorching day, with the ceremony she attended getting cut short by a sandstorm. They hadn’t had one this bad in over a year. With limited visibility, the entire city looked like it was covered in fog, and the local weather service predicted those conditions would remain until tomorrow.
Thank goodness she’d worn another headscarf, turban-style again—gold and black this time—which matched her gold blouse and black slacks. She looked forward to a cleansing shower, but at least she wouldn’t have to wash her hair.
“Any messages?” she asked as she swept down the carpeted hall to her office, past the photographs that portrayed rural and city life in Zamibia. She tucked the mask into the large leather purse over her shoulder.
Daman, the office manager, fell into step beside her and brushed dust particles from her clothes. He was a few inches taller than her with dark brown skin and wore his hair in dreadlocks pinned in a bun at the crown of his head.
“A few phone calls inquiring about the result of the report from the environmental commission.”
“A report we still haven’t received yet,” Imani said, irritation spiking her voice.
“Nothing has changed since this morning, and I’ve called several times to get an update, but no one can tell me anything except they will provide the report soon.”
Waiting for the assessment put Imani and her team in an awkward position with the Barrakesch government. Once the report arrived, they’d have to sort through it and make final adjustments before the agreement between Barrakesch and Zamibia could be signed. But absolutely nothing could be done until then. Right now, the Barrakesch Ministry of Oil was patient, but the delay meant postponing getting this project off all their plates.
“Keep me up to date on—”
Imani came to a stop on the threshold of her office and stared at her favorite piece of furniture. The large, heavy desk had been imported from Zamibia at her request and right now served as the base for a vase filled with red roses. She walked forward slowly.
“What’s all this?” She lifted one of the roses from the enormous bouquet.
“Special delivery. They arrived after lunch.” Daman came to stand beside her.
