If Mwansa Tembo thought negotiating a multi-billion Kwacha mining deal in London was hard, he was clearly unprepared for **The Aunties.**
The black Mercedes-Benz sat idling outside our gate like a spaceship that had landed in the wrong galaxy. Half the neighborhood was already watching from behind their fences. In Chelstone, a car this expensive usually meant a funeral for a politician or a visit from a tax collector.
"Remember," I whispered, leaning toward Mwansa as he adjusted his cufflinks. He looked physically pained by the dust on his shoes. "My mother is the General. My Auntie Petronella is the Intelligence Officer. If you fail the interrogation, there is no marriage."
"I am a CEO, Chileshe," he said, his voice tight. "I manage thousands of people. I think I can handle your mother."
"You manage employees, Mwansa. You don't manage a Zambian woman who has been praying for a rich son-in-law since the 90s. There is a difference."
We stepped out.
The house was small, but it was *clean*. My mother, Ba Mayo, had spent the last six hours scrubbing surfaces that were already spotless. The smell of frying chicken and *ifisashi* (greens in peanut sauce) hit us like a brick wall as we entered the living room.
Then, there they were. The Tribunal.
My mother sat in the center chair, her chitenge wrapped perfectly. Flanking her were Auntie Petronella (who looked like she was about to perform a background check) and Auntie Charity (who was already eyeing Mwansa's watch).
"Muli shani," Mwansa said, bowing slightly. His Bemba was formal—stiff, but respectful.
"Wait," Auntie Petronella said, holding up a hand. She put on her reading glasses, squinting at him. "You are the one from the television. The one who is always closing things. Why are you here to open our daughter's heart?"
I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
"I am here," Mwansa said, choosing his words like he was in a courtroom, "because Chileshe is the most... unique woman I have ever encountered. I wish to marry her."
My mother didn't say anything for a long minute. She looked at his suit. She looked at the gift basket he had brought (which I had insisted contain real butter and the expensive tea bags, not the generic ones).
"Mwansa Tembo," she finally said. "In this house, we don't eat money. We eat nshima. Do you know how to eat nshima?"
"Of course," Mwansa lied. I knew for a fact he hadn't touched nshima with his hands in at least a decade.
The challenge was set.
Ten minutes later, the "Copper King" was sitting on a low stool, a bowl of hot water being poured over his hands by my youngest cousin. A mountain of steaming nshima sat in the center of the table.
I watched him. He took a piece. It was too hot. His fingers flinched, but he didn't make a sound. He rolled the lump in his palm—a bit too much like he was handling a stress ball—made a small indentation with his thumb, and dipped it into the *ifisashi*.
The Aunties watched him like hawks.
He took a bite. He chewed. He swallowed.
"It is... excellent," he managed to say, though I could see the peanut sauce was a bit more adventurous than his usual steak-and-potatoes diet.
"He has a good grip," Auntie Charity whispered loudly. "A man with a good nshima grip can provide."
But the atmosphere shifted when my father, Ba Tata, walked in.
He was wearing his best shirt—the one with the frayed collar he usually reserved for church. He didn't look at the food. He didn't look at the Aunties. He looked straight at the man who had authorized his layoff.
The silence was deafening. Mwansa stood up. For the first time, he didn't look like a CEO. He looked like a man standing in front of the consequences of his own "efficiency."
"Mr. Banda," Mwansa said quietly.
My father took a long time to answer. He looked at me, then at the man in the expensive suit.
"My daughter says you are a good man," my father said, his voice raspy. "I told her I don't know many good men who drive cars that cost more than a village. But I know my daughter. If she has chosen you, it is because there is something in you worth choosing."
He held out his hand.
"Don't break her, Mr. Tembo. I don't have the tools to fix what you might destroy."
Mwansa took the hand. His face went pale. In that moment, the contract felt a lot more real—and a lot more dangerous—than the paper we had signed in Rhodes Park.
As we left that night, the car full of leftover containers (because no Zambian mother lets you leave empty-handed), Mwansa was silent.
"You did well," I said, looking at him. "You survived the interrogation."
"Your father," Mwansa said, staring out the window at the dark streets of Chelstone. "He didn't ask about the money. Not once."
"He doesn't care about your money, Mwansa. He cares about the 'human capital' you're taking away from him."
Mwansa looked at his hands—still smelling faintly of peanuts and woodsmoke. He didn't say anything for the rest of the ride, but for the first time, he didn't look like he was in a hurry to get back to his marble office.
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