He sat at the back of the church. Wedding guests were filing in, the women dressed in elegant wrappers and dazzling dresses, the men looking serious in suits and caftans. He lowered his head, but he didn’t have to. No one recognised him here. No one except her.
When their eyes met, she gasped and gripped her escorts hand. A reflexive act that worried the man and the photographer.
“Dupe, are you alright?” The elderly man at her side asked.
“Yes, uncle. I am fine.” The bride answered. But she wasn’t, she was trembling like a cobweb.
Lucky savoured the moment. It was good to know she still remembered. Very good.
He remembered too.
Six years ago, they had been man and wife. He had planned it all to get himself an easy UK visa but she had thought it was love. Once they got to Glasgow where she worked, the rose coloured glasses had shattered and she had seen him as he was.
By then he had found other friends and contacts he could use. When she caught him with Sheena, a sultry Jamaican traffic warden, she filed for a divorce.
Then he disappeared.
Until here, in this crowded Surulere church.
Soon the minister would ask if there was anyone who had any reason why the couple should not be joined.
He would watch her suffer through that eternal minute.
Then he would leave.
But not a minute before.