Stay The Night
By Chilufiya Safaa
DAFINA BOOKS
Copyright © 2010
Chilufiya Safaa
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-7582-1974-9
Chapter One
Nairobi, Kenya
Mist hung as if by magic in the early morning air. The
gray-colored Kenyan sky opened and released clear
droplets of warm rain that drizzled gently down to the
thirsty, rust-colored earth. Kamau Mazrui stood stoically
alone inside the enclosed structure of the Mazrui family
mausoleum. As the rain dropped softly to the ground, so
did silent tears drop down Kamau's clenched, square jaw.
The painful memory of the loss of his wife, Yasmin
Mazrui, once again pierced his heart like the reopening
of an old wound. He stood motionless. Even the air dared
not stir as he stood mute, questioning silently what he
could have done to prevent his wife's untimely death.
Yasmin Mazrui's life had ended a year earlier in the crash
of the small Cessna aircraft she had been piloting, but
Kamau's need for her still lingered. The void left by his
wife's absence wrapped around him like silken ribbons,
reminding him of a touch that could no longer be felt.
Kamau stood, knowing he would never see, hear nor
feel Yasmin again. The void eased through him, leaving
cold, empty traces of longing and regret. Rapid-fire
questions lasered through his consciousness.
Was there a
word that should have or could have been said? Could
more have been done to stop her from piloting the plane
alone? Why was her life taken? Why was he deprived of
her beauty, intellect and humor? If they had not quarreled
before her business trip about her wanting to pilot
the plane without him, would she have been more focused
and consequently still alive? The barrage of muted
questions had no answers. Feeling the moisture from
tears landing on taut, chiseled, deep-mahogany-colored
cheeks, Kamau wiped them away quickly with the back
of his strong, dark hand. With one motion, he denied
their existence. The end of Kamau Mazrui's momentary
expression of sorrow was released in a breath that emanated
from a body that had become defined by grief.
As if by rote, Kamau quickly looked at the octagonal
face of his custom-made Cartier wristwatch. The time
that registered brought him back to the realities of his
current existence. In less than an hour, he was expected
to host a breakfast meeting for businessmen who, like
himself, wielded substantial power around the globe.
Among the men attending would be his father, Judge
Garsen Mazrui, and his older brother, Keino Mazrui, a
highly successful international entrepreneur. For the sake
of the family, Kamau knew he could show no signs of
lingering grief. It was not his desire to have anyone show
concern or pity for him. The isolation he felt shrouded
him as he lifted dark, hooded eyes once again to read the
golden plaque on which was etched YASMIN MAZRUI,
BELOVED WIFE. He took a deep cleansing breath and
slowly exited the mausoleum. Leaving the structure,
Kamau noted that the rain had stopped, and the sky had
returned to azure laced with chalky-white clouds making
their way lazily across the heavens.
Moving his well-toned, solidly built body with grace
and precision, Kamau Mazrui placed one elegantly
crafted, meticulously polished, leather Italian lace-up
shoe in front of the other. Having made his way across
the manicured grounds on which the mausoleum stood,
Kamau unlocked his four-door, late-model Bentley with
the remote. Entering the driver's seat, he was encased
in a soft cocoon of burgundy leather that became another
refuge.
He placed the key in the ignition and turned his wrist
slightly. The powerful engine responded with a barely perceptible
hum. With an automatic motion, Kamau pressed
his foot on the accelerator. The elegantly designed driving
machine moved forward, gliding so smoothly Kamau
barely felt the road. With skill and precision, he steered
the touring sedan and sped along familiar highways,
heading toward what he hoped would be the ultimate
distraction-his work.
The streets of Nairobi were congested as Kamau
Mazrui maneuvered the steel-gray Bentley along the
stretch of roadway leading to the Meru Gentlemen's Club.
The Meru Club had been founded decades before by his
paternal grandfather. The Mazrui patriarch had always declared
that the club had been erected as a barrier against
the vulgar and the mundane. In contemporary times, its
use had become more complicated. The vulgar and the
mundane were open to loosely held interpretations. The
major reason for the meetings held at the club in modern
times concerned business; some would have conjectured
that a certain level of business by its very nature lent
itself to vulgarity and to the mundane. And so with every
accelerated motion of the sedan, Kamau Mazrui moved
momentarily away from the grief that permeated his
soul to the ruthlessness that often characterized the world
in which he operated as the principal attorney in the
Mazrui law firm.
As he continued to steer the car in the direction of the
club, the symbol of strength and timelessness erected by
his grandfather soon became visible. It was a massive
building that mimicked the Georgian architecture popular
in eighteenth-century Britain. The sight of the structure
released in him a calm assurance that connected
him mentally and emotionally to the power of his grandfather,
the patriarch of the dynasty who had conceived
of and constructed the building he saw before him. At
this time in his life, only his ancestral connections gave
him the strength to persevere.
Kamau Mazrui wheeled the luxury automobile into his
reserved parking space, and immediately a valet was on
hand to open his door. Kamau pressed a lever to open the
trunk of the car, stepped out, retrieved his flawlessly
crafted leather briefcase and walked into the gentlemen's
club with the air of pride, competence, arrogance and
confidence that surrounded all of the Mazrui men. He
entered the building and found within its well-preserved
walls the sense of peace he craved. There was a refined
splendor in the large, opulently decorated rooms. They
were separated by their functions. Some were used for
gaming; some for dining; some for meetings; and others
for lounging with a favorite cigar, glass of port, snifter of
brandy, pipe, periodical, book or the daily news. Conversations
were to be had on any subject, from the ridiculous
to the sublime. Kamau welcomed the smells of aged
leather, rich tobacco, freshly brewed coffee and the faint
fragrance of lemon from highly polished African and
European antique furnishings. He was calmed by the
watchful eyes that stared down from the ornately framed
portraits of men like his father, grandfather and great-grandfather,
men who had prevailed and thrived in spite
of personal tragedies. It gave him comfort to know that
such strength was his birthright. As Kamau entered the
vestibule, he was greeted by the hall porter, a wizened,
elderly gentleman who informed him that his father and
brother had already arrived. He thanked the porter who
had served the Mazrui family and the Meru Gentlemen's
Club for three decades, and then made his way to the
room he had reserved for the meeting.
As Kamau entered the room, Garsen and Keino
Mazrui saw him, stopped their conversation and encircled
him warmly in the familial embrace that was their
custom. After the greeting, each man positioned himself
in one of the high-backed chairs encircling a round table
constructed of gleaming ebony wood inlaid on the surface
with geometrically shaped mahogany pieces.
Judge Garsen Mazrui observed his son Kamau with
more intensity than usual as the three of them discussed
the fluctuating global markets and made light of recent
political scandals. The judge watched Kamau go through
the motions of emptying his briefcase of well-ordered
file folders in preparation for the meeting. Kamau distractedly
lined up the files perfectly on the table in front
of him while conversing with his father and brother.
Judge Mazrui noted that although it had been a year
since his daughter-in-law's death, his son's eyes still held
the look of one caught unaware by a tragedy that defied
explanation. Keino, too, tried to unobtrusively observe
his brother. It pained him that he could not help his
beloved sibling find peace. Keino was well aware that
although Kamau performed his normal duties as efficiently
as ever for all the world to see, his brother wore
his pain as close to him as one of his well-tailored suits.
Judge Mazrui changed the subject from stocks and
bonds to more immediate concerns. While looking at his
gold pocket watch, he asked, "Kamau, how many of our
colleagues are joining us today?"
Still organizing the files in front of him, Kamau responded,
"Approximately ten." He stopped positioning
the files and added, "They should start arriving shortly."
With the thumb and index finger of his left hand, Kamau
stroked his full, well-groomed mustache as he continued
speaking. "I have been informed that everyone invited
will join us." He added with a slightly cynical grin, "Time
in Africa is, after all, cyclical. Despite modern advances,
some cultural practices never change."
Kamau's statement amused Keino, and through his
laughter, Keino responded, "My brother, you are so right.
African time will always be African time." He gestured,
lifting his hands into the air. "Throughout the diaspora it
is the same."
Just as Keino finished his sentence, a number of the
businessmen scheduled to arrive walked into the room.
These men were representatives of a number of African
countries. As emissaries of their various city-states, they
had come to the Meru Gentlemen's Club at Kamau's request
to serve as the founding members of a continental
African strategic planning entity designed to set policy to
unify political and economic systems across the continent.
Greetings were extended and small talk was exchanged.
Shortly, the remainder of the group arrived, and
Kamau took charge as waiters entered as if on cue, carrying
trays of food that they placed on skirted buffet
tables. Gone was Kamau's early morning melancholy; in
its place was a driven, laser-focused attention to detail.
His only purpose at that moment was to preside over the
meeting with the commanding presence that was the
hallmark of Mazrui tradition. As the morning clicked by
at a rapid pace, filled with eating, lighthearted banter and
serious business transactions, Kamau's sadness turned to
the solemn focus and the passion and persistence that
had forged his reputation as an internationally renowned
corporate attorney. With the heightened decibels of his
voice, he guided the men forward to the accomplishment
of their stated goals, pushing thoughts of Yasmin for a
time further back into the recesses of his mind.
Chapter Two
Virginia, USA
Adana Terrell stood in the empty courtroom where in
two hours she was scheduled to begin the trial preliminaries
of her newest case. Years before, she had developed a
ritual of standing in the vacant courtroom in which she
was to appear to breathe in all of the joy she felt when
practicing the art of being a jurist. Adana couldn't remember
a time when she didn't want to be a lawyer. She was
living her dream. She was a partner in the prestigious firm
of Wilkes, Willis, Burkes, and Terrell. A smile eased
across her narrow face. A deep sigh parted ruby-colored
lips as she tilted her head back, causing her short,
precision-cut, fine, raven-colored hair to fall back, resting
on her head in perfect layers. The lock of hair that normally
stopped at her cheek, almost covering one eye, fell
back, exposing round eyes that sparkled and glistened.
Feeling a sense of peace wash over her, Adana closed her
eyes and wrapped her arms around her torso. In her
mind's eye, she envisioned herself facing the jury and
hammering away at them with arguments so compelling
her client would be acquitted. Just as she envisioned herself
uttering the last sentence of her summation, the vision
was shattered. A familiar voice that prickled her skin
pierced the silence.
"I see you're still practicing that ritual of yours."
She felt as if the proverbial splash of cold water had
been thrown in her face. Adana's body tightened, her
eyes opened slowly and she stared with deadly precision
at the figure standing before her. Adana could not mistake
that voice. She would never forget it. There he was,
cocky, flashy, with a hint of slick hiding beneath an extremely
expensive wardrobe. She wondered what she
had ever seen in him. Adana hated to think that her preoccupation
with work and the pursuit of her dream had
allowed her to fall for the shallow pretty boy Jeffery
Scott, Esquire, who was now standing there leering at
her. But it had, and now he was thrown back into her life
as her adversary in the firm's latest case.
Adana straightened her slender, shapely form to its
maximum five feet nine inches and, with the ruby-colored
nails of her left hand, flicked a strand of hair from her
cheek, turned her back to him and began walking in the
opposite direction.
Jeffery watched her walk to the defense table, and for
the zillionth time, he regretted losing the spectacular
woman he saw before him. As always, she was impeccably
dressed. Adana's black St. John knit suit tastefully
hugged every curve, the white silk blouse and three
strands of white pearls touched places he longed to embrace,
and the matching pearl earrings and black three-inch
stilettos brought back memories of the heat and
passion Adana had always evoked in him.
Adana's silence spoke volumes, causing Jeffery to feel
tremendous exasperation and a loss of control. With a
clipped tone that sounded as though he were examining
a witness, Jeffery asked, "Are you going to answer me?"
Having finished placing previously reviewed briefs
back into her leather briefcase, a cold, exacting Adana
responded while picking up the briefcase from the table.
"No, Jeffery. No small talk, no answered questions. I
only intend to speak to you when we are actively involved
in matters pertaining to this trial. Until then, leave
me the hell alone." With head held high and composure
intact, Adana left the courtroom, leaving Jeffery frozen
where he stood.
His eyes followed her. The corner of his mouth lifted
in a sly grin. Jeffery shook his head and reminded himself
that though he had lost one round, he wasn't giving
up. Jeffery Scott felt he had been given another chance,
and this time Adana Terrell was not going to slip away.
He turned his attention to the documents he intended to
review and silently assured himself that the lady lawyer,
his worthy adversary, would once again be his.
Adana was steaming. The intensity of the anger was
causing her head to pound and her ears to ring. Clenching
her teeth, she muttered to herself, "What in God's
name have I done to deserve this? What have I done? I
am going to have to work for weeks with a man who
deceived and humiliated me."
Walking became her release. The heels of her stilettos
clicked rhythmically as she hurried along the marbled
halls of the courthouse, moving as quickly as she could
away from a piece of her past she wanted never to remember.
Jeffery Scott was a constant reminder that though she
was an accomplished attorney, when it came to choosing
a man, she, Adana Terrell, was clueless. Jeffery Scott, the
fast-talking, New York-bred manipulator, had more game
than Adana had ever encountered. As she walked, she
thought to herself,
Adana, you were played like a fiddle.
She needed to run, to punch something, to scream, to
curse Jeffery. None of those things were options at that
moment, so she hurried on to the parking garage where
she had left her car.
Adana crossed the busy street facing the courthouse,
taking deep breaths, hoping to calm herself. She quickly
entered the concrete slab constructed to house automobiles
of every imaginable size, shape and color. Adana
found the numbered stall where she had parked her car,
and as she slid into the driver's seat, she grabbed the
steering wheel of the two-seater Mercedes-Benz with
both hands, rested her head on it and wept. The tears
weren't for Jeffery or for the loss of the relationship. The
tears were because, in her mind, she had been played
royally. Adana Terrell hated to lose, and she hated being
duped. Both loss and deception left her feeling vulnerable,
and being vulnerable was not something she handled
well. With Jeffery she had missed every sign.
Denial had been her middle name. The ability to judge
correctly was the cornerstone of her chosen profession.
The fact that Jeffery Scott was ever a fixture in her life
left her questioning herself on the most basic levels.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Stay The Night
by Chilufiya Safaa
Copyright © 2010 by Chilufiya Safaa.
Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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