She Was Never Just the Wife novel Chapter 74

Chapter 74

Chapter 74

(Sunrise at the border of Amsali and Mara Reserve)

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Elliott sat in the front row, slightly to the left, wearing a light khaki linen safari suit that showed off his broad shoulders and narrow waist.

He stood out with a calm confidence among all the formal suits.

Leaning toward the Sharyahque executive next to him, they spoke quietly about new energy investments in Eastetille.

Elliott’s voice was steady, his facts and geopolitical takes spot-on. The executive kept nodding, fingers tapping the armrest without thinking. He was totally on board.

“Mr. Perry, your insights always hit the mark,” the executive said, genuinely impressed. “Clearly, you know this place way beyond what the numbers say.”

“You have to really feel the heartbeat of a place to invest,” Elliott replied, keeping it cool.

His eyes drifted across the room. There were politicians deep in animated talks, reporters fussing with their camera lenses, and the local chiefs looking all serious.

He was waiting for something, maybe someone, a wild card that might never show up. Even he couldn’t say exactly who or what, but the thought lingered in his mind.

That line in the presidential invite, “may bring an important partner”, felt like a pebble tossed into his heart, stirring up ripples he’d rather not think about.

The ceremony kicked off with a Kenyelle Army General, decked out in a crisp military uniform, his chest heavy with rows of medals.

“Today, we gather not to witness the wonders of creation, but to give thanks to those friends who, in our darkest hour, pulled us back from the brink.”

The general boomed, his voice echoing across the open savanna through the speakers.

Elliott was one of the first VIPS called up to the stage. He accepted the “Medal of Excellence in Peace and Reconstruction” from the general on behalf of Kenyelle.

He gave a brief speech, humble and precise, crediting the whole aid team and reaffirming his commitment to long-term sustainable development in the region.

He carried himself with poise and grace, earning a polite, sustained round of applause.

The real turning point came when the tribal leaders finally took the stage.

The first to step up was Eddie, the chief of the Ngombee Tribe. He was a man well past seventy, his skin tough and weathered like old leather, but his eyes sharp as a hawk.

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Chapter 74

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He wore a heavy ceremonial robe made from black impala hide and strings of colorful beads, an ostrich feather crown that marked his supreme authority, and carried an ancient staff capped with a huge turquoise

stone.

He skipped the microphone, facing his people and the wide savanna, his voice rough, resonant, and cutting through the air as he spoke in their tribal language.

The diplomatic interpreter next to Elliott leaned in, whispering the translation almost in real time. “Back then, the sun was poison, the rain a curse. The land split open, greedy, swallowing up our last seeds. “Gunshots thundered more often than storms, stealing not water, but the lives of our sons and fathers.

“Women’s tears made the rivers bitter, and children’s cries were so sad even the vultures mourned.

“We prayed to our ancestors’ spirits, to the gods of the mountains and rivers, but all we got was silence and even deeper hunger.”

Eddie’s voice carried a mournful, rhythmic cadence, like he was chanting an ancient elegy.

Down in the crowd, locals, ordinary folks, and officials alike all wore solemn faces, with some quietly wiping away tears.

“And then, when even the gods seemed to have abandoned us, the light arrived.

“It was not lightning from the sky, but a glow from across the ocean, from people who do not look or speak like us but whose hearts beat the same.”

Eddie’s voice suddenly soared, filled with a sacred kind of gratitude. He spun around, pointing his staff toward a section at the back of the viewing area, shrouded in a thick red curtain.

“That light was medicine! It was health! It was a hope for survival.”

The interpreter’s voice trembled with excitement. “And the one who brought that light walked among us.

“She stepped into huts thick with the shadow of death, and the demons scattered before her calm gaze.

“She dropped bitter medicine into the mouths of feverish children, and their burning foreheads cooled.

“With her miraculous scalpel and thread, she stitched up the torn chests of our warriors, making their hearts beat again.

“She wasn’t some shaman. She never asked for payment. She brought life. We don’t know which land she came from, but we call her the Angel, and we call her Rose!”

As Eddie’s voice soared, two strong young warriors stepped forward with solemn faces and pulled aside the heavy red curtain.

Standing nearly 7 feet tall, a wooden statue emerged dramatically, bathed in the morning light.

The statue was clearly crafted by a master tribal sculptor. Its style was rough yet expressive, radiating a

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Chapter 74

powerful, primal energy.

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It depicted a tall woman in a simple robe, her head gently inclined, one hand extended downward, palm as if cradling something. It could perhaps be a medicine, perhaps a droplet of water.

Her posture was full of comfort and generosity.

The other hand was pressed gently to her chest, grasping an abstract emblem that resembled both a blossoming rose and the entwined staff of medicine.

Her features were serene, compassionate, and resolute, and the deep-colored gemstones in her eyes glimmered in the sunlight, alive with wisdom and benevolence.

A deep, awed murmur swept through the crowd.

The moment the statue appeared, every local in the viewing area, from high-ranking ministers to spear- bearing warriors, from tribal elders in traditional robes to young attendants, almost simultaneously let out a hushed, reverent exclamation.

Many pressed a hand to their chest and bowed their heads deeply. Some elderly women stood there, hands clasped, silently weeping in prayer.

Elliott was shaken by the sudden, collective solemnity and emotion. He stared at the statue.

Even though its style was abstract, certain features, that tranquil aura, the slight curve of the lips, sparked a strange, inexplicable sense of familiarity and a flutter in his heart.

Rose? The medical symbol? Was this the woman they honored as an angel, a healer, a savior?

Not far behind him, he overheard two women, clearly representatives from a large Brakovian medical charity, talking in a quick, hushed tone, their voices full of disbelief and awe.

“Oh, my god. So the ‘Angel of the Mara’ is actually real! I always thought it was some local myth, totally exaggerated.”

“It’s way more than real! Robert mentioned this after the last Doctors Without Borders conference.

“Three years ago, when that unknown hemorrhagic fever and severe malnutrition hit, it was a Tarsian doctor, codename ‘Rose,’ who took charge, set up isolation and nutrition protocols.

“The death rate dropped from a predicted 60% to a few percent! She even trained the first local medics. They say she barely slept and spent two months nonstop in the most remote places.”

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