SCANDALOUS MARRIAGE

Chapter 4: The sound of promises

The din was hushed, saturated with perfume and laughter. A VIP lounge hidden from view, lurking behind the crimson velvet curtains of a posh Corniche lounge. The light caressed faces like a secret hand. Between two glasses placed on a coffee table, one female leg crossed another, while the suave voices of three young women mingled around a man sprawled in a black leather armchair as if he reigned there.

Abdoul Kabir Fall.

Shirt unbuttoned, gold watch gleaming in the dim light, arrogant smile screwed onto his face, he was at ease. Too comfortable. He was one of those men you look at without daring to interrupt. Not because they're handsome, but because they exude something. A power. A presence. The kind that seduces without speaking. The kind that disappears without warning.

- Abdoul, is it true that you had a model fired because she sent you a message after midnight?" asked the girl in the orange dress, her eyes laughing.

- I don't like people disturbing my dreams. Especially when I'm not in hers," he replied, bursting into laughter and putting a finger to his lips.

The girls laugh. He doesn't laugh for long.

The driver, standing a little way off, steps forward and discreetly hands him a phone.

- Sir, it's your father. He says it's important.

Abdoul Kabir picks up the camera, eyebrows slightly furrowed.

- Yeah, Dad?

A pause. Her smile disappears. Her fingers tighten on the armrest.

- Now? Okay, I'm coming.

He hangs up, stands up. The mood drops a notch.

- A family emergency," he says.

He kisses the air and leaves the room. The night continues to stretch like a lazy feline.

******

The light-filled Fall villa greeted her son with the usual calm. The windows sparkled, the stairs were silent. He went straight upstairs, pushed open the door to the family living room, where his mother, Daba, was waiting for him, seated, her hands folded, her boubou impeccably pressed, her gaze piercing.

- Where have you been?

He shrugged.

- I was doing what every young man does on a Friday night, Mom. Enjoy.

She sighed. A long one.

- Abdoul Kabir... Your name is starting to weigh more than you are. You walk in shoes you can't even tie.

He rolled his eyes, but remained silent. She stood up, approached him and laid her hand on his cheek.

- But no more, my son. The outings, the "tralalalalala" as you call it. Your father wants to talk to you. Prepare yourself.

Dinner.

The table was laid. Grilled meats, steamed vegetables, fragrant rice. But the atmosphere was heavy. Fama, Abdoul's little sister, was nervously tapping her phone while glancing at her brother. Daba served calmly. Moustapha Fall, the father, ate slowly.

And suddenly he spoke.

- You're getting married.

Fork suspended in mid-air. Fama looked up sharply. Daba closed hers. Abdoul froze.

- What do you mean, I'm getting married?

- With Sarata Sow. Cheikh Sow's daughter. It's been decided.

Fama burst out laughing.

- Brother? Married? He'll forget his name before he remembers his wife's!

Abdoul smiled, almost amused.

- She means business.

But Daba, without looking up, cut in:

- Very serious. So am I.

- It's out of the question," says Abdoul. I'll get married the day I find a woman I want, not the one they throw at me like a DHL parcel.

Moustapha slowly put down his spoon.

- You don't have to want it. You have to understand. This marriage is more than a couple. It's an alliance. A continuity. A necessity.

- Then you marry her!

Silence. Chilling.

- You think you're a king? You're just a flippant prince in a kingdom that will escape you if you don't straighten up.

Daba looked at him. Proud. Coldly determined.

- And I'm telling you: this wedding will happen. Rain or shine. Let it snow. Come hell or high water.

On the Sarata side.

The living room was sober. Simple. Rugs, a bookcase, cushions. Sarata had just returned from the orphanage. She had put away her tafsir cards, put down her scarf and drunk a glass of water. She was about to retire to her room when her father called.

- Sarata, come and sit down.

Her mother, Aïssatou, was already there, silent. She wasn't looking at her daughter, just at her hands. Sarata sat up straight, attentive.

- A marriage proposal came.

His eyes widened slightly. Just a little.

- From whom?

- Abdoul Kabir Fall. You've probably heard the name.

She nodded gently.

- A name. A name. Not a face.

- We agreed.

She didn't flinch. No screams, no tears, no high-sounding words. Just a long breath.

- It's your decision. I am your daughter.

Aïssatou looked up at her. She wanted her to say no. To resist. But she knew that Sarata was like water from a well: deep, calm, but capable of drowning the hardest certainties.

- Don't you want to meet him first?" she asked, almost in a low voice.

- If it's Allah's will, may he be good to me. If not, I'll get over it.

And so, under the gilding of a destiny woven of ambitions, a marriage was announced. Not yet sealed. Not yet loved. But inevitable.

A boy of the night.

A girl from the light.

And in the middle, two families dancing with the future.