Married to the Devil's Son

Setting: Mbengwi, Northwest Cameroon “Amina, stand up and go wear that red scarf. Your husband’s people are coming today.” The way Mama said it, as if I was being handed over like a basin of garri, made something in my stomach turn. “Mama, which husband?” I asked slowly, wiping cassava flour off my hands. “You’ll understand when you reach Yaoundé,” she replied, not looking me in the eye. I stood there in our smoky kitchen, hearing the firewood crackling, feeling the heat, but a cold fear climbed my back. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard Mama speak in codes. But this time, something was off. This wasn’t normal. That morning, she had boiled plantain and bitterleaf soup my late father’s favorite meal. She gave me meat. Two big chunks. That alone made my heart race. Nobody gives their daughter meat before bad news. By noon, an old, dusty Prado drove up our hill. Two men came down, dressed in dry cleaned agbadas, dark sunglasses, and an aura of money. “Are you Amina Nfor?” one asked. I looked at Mama. She nodded slowly, like someone sending their goat to slaughter but trying not to cry. The man smiled. “Your husband is waiting for you in Yaoundé. You must leave today.” I sat in the crowded Guaranti Express bus next to a crying baby and a woman chewing groundnuts like her life depended on it. I had one bag, one phone with 5% battery, and one question burning in my chest "Why me?" The bus shook as we passed Bamenda, going toward the steep hills of Santa. Rain began to fall, making it hard to see the road. That’s when I remembered something Papa once told me: “In this life, Amina, when they say opportunity is knocking, check well. It might be the devil in disguise.”