The Bride He Never Wanted

CHAPTER NINE — The Hours Before

The first hint of dawn had not yet brushed the sky, but her mother moved silently through the house, heart heavy, a knot of dread twisting deep in her stomach. She went straight to Ameerah’s room, careful not to wake anyone else, and gently shook her daughter awake.

“Ameerah… wake up, my child. It is time.”

Ameerah stirred, eyelids heavy with exhaustion, her body aching from the weight of the previous night. The soft glow of the moon revealed the tear-streaked lines of her face, the faint trembling of her lips. Her chest rose and fell unevenly, as though her heart carried the burden of a thousand unspoken fears.

“Umma…” she whispered, voice hoarse, barely a thread in the dark.

Her mother’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “My darling… my sweet girl,” she said, pressing a trembling hand to her daughter’s cheek. “It is time. The henna woman will be here soon. We must prepare.”

Ameerah’s lips quivered, but she did not move. The thought of the day ahead, the ritual, the ceremony, and the man she did not want to marry pressed on her like a thousand invisible hands. Her mind raced, heart pounding so violently she felt it in her throat.

Her mother slid onto the edge of the bed, pulling her daughter into her arms. They clung to each other, two souls desperately seeking comfort in the face of helplessness. Silent tears fell freely, each drop a testament to the pain and fear that filled their hearts.

“I am so sorry, my child,” her mother whispered, voice breaking, “I am so sorry I could not protect you from him, from this. I… I wish I were stronger. I wish I could stop any of this from happening. But you… you are my daughter. And I will not let them crush you completely. I promise you, my heart will always be with you.”

Ameerah buried her face in her mother’s shoulder, trembling. “I… I am scared, Umma,” she admitted, voice barely audible. “I do not want to go through this. I do not want to marry him.”

Her mother stroked her hair, clinging to her child with a fierce intensity. “I know, my darling. I know,” she murmured. “It is not right. No mother would wish this for her daughter. But you are strong, Ameerah. Stronger than anyone knows. You have carried so much already, and you will carry this too. But you will survive. Always remember—you are not defined by the cruelty of others, not by the hand of a man who does not see your worth. You are Ameerah. You are courage. You are light.”

Ameerah’s fingers dug into her mother’s fabric, nails biting into the softness as she let herself cry. The grief, fear, and frustration that had been locked away for months poured out in trembling sobs. Her mother did not flinch; she held her tighter, allowing her daughter to release every ounce of despair.

After what felt like hours but was only minutes, her mother drew back slightly, cupping her daughter’s tear-streaked face. “My child,” she said gently, “listen to me. Listen carefully. In this house, in that ceremony, you may be forced to obey, but do not let them take your soul. Do not let them extinguish your spirit. Stand, walk, and speak as though you belong to yourself, because you do. Never forget—you are never alone. Never forget your mother is here, even when they try to make you feel invisible.”

Ameerah’s trembling slowed, her body still tight with tension, but her eyes glimmered with the faintest spark of resolve. Her mother’s words, spoken with the weight of generations, resonated deeply within her.

Her mother wiped away the remaining tears, brushing her fingers across Ameerah’s cheeks with gentle precision. “My child,” she said, “before marriage, there are things an Arewa mother must teach her daughter. You must respect your husband, yes. You must show kindness and patience. But you must also know your worth, your boundaries. Your obedience is not your submission—it is your choice. If they attempt to take more than they are owed, you have the right to stand your ground, my child. Do not forget the strength that flows through your veins, the courage that has always carried you.”

Ameerah listened, the words sinking like warm water into a frozen lake, melting the fear just enough to allow a cautious hope to grow.

“The henna woman will arrive soon,” her mother continued, glancing toward the door as though sensing the approaching footsteps of fate. “The decorations, the rituals… all these things are to mark your passage into a new life. They are customs, beautiful ones, but they are not chains. Let them celebrate you, Ameerah, let them honor you, but do not let them claim you as less than you are. Do you understand?”

Ameerah nodded slowly, her throat tight with emotion. The fear had not vanished, but it had been tempered, strengthened by her mother’s unwavering presence.

Her mother’s voice dropped to a whisper, heavy with emotion. “And remember this, my daughter—the previous bride ran away. She refused. She left behind the shame and the curses of expectation. And though her choice brought chaos, it reminds us… you have a choice too. I hope you do not follow her path, but if ever you must choose for your own survival, do so with courage. Always with courage.”

Ameerah’s lips parted, eyes glistening. She wanted to speak, to ask questions, to unravel the knot of fear, but no words came. Her mother’s embrace, her voice, her presence—they said everything words could not capture.

Her mother tightened her arms around her daughter once more. “We cry together now,” she whispered, “but when the day begins, we walk together silently in our hearts. And we will survive this, Ameerah. I promise you. Always.”

The soft creak of the front door signaled the arrival of the henna woman. Moonlight shifted across the room as her mother slowly released Ameerah, guiding her to sit upright, shoulders trembling but chin lifted. The boxes of kayan lefe gleamed beside her, silent witnesses of dignity, honor, and the passage into a life that would demand strength she had never needed before.

Her mother adjusted the veil of Ameerah’s hair gently, murmuring words of reassurance in hushed tones. “Remember, my child… every bead, every fabric, every ritual… it is your armor, your shield, your declaration. Carry it with pride, with strength, and with the knowledge that no one can ever diminish your spirit.”

Ameerah’s hands lingered on the folds of the fabrics, tracing the delicate embroidery, feeling the weight of tradition and the love behind the gifts. She swallowed hard, a lump rising in her throat. Her body shivered, half from fear, half from the quiet exhilaration of being seen, protected, and valued by a woman who had chosen to step into her life at the darkest hour.

Her mother’s hand rested on her daughter’s, steadying, anchoring. “We cry together now,” she repeated softly. “But soon, you will walk through those doors. You will face the world with dignity, with honor, and with every ounce of courage I know lives inside you. And when you do, remember—you are not alone. I am here, in every heartbeat, in every breath. Always here.”

The henna woman’s soft steps approached, carrying the scent of fragrant oils, the sound of delicate instruments, and the promise of ritual. Ameerah’s heart skipped, her fingers clutching the edge of the mattress as the first brushes of henna were placed on her hands. Each stroke was deliberate, ceremonial, marking her passage. Pain and pleasure, fear and hope, all collided in a strange, beautiful harmony.

Her mother leaned close once more, whispering a final blessing. “This day will be remembered, my child. Not for the fear, not for the cruelty, but for the strength you show. Hold onto that. You are braver than anyone knows. You are my daughter. You are my pride. And I will always protect you.”

Ameerah’s chest constricted, a sob threatening to escape, but she held it back. She let her tears fall silently onto her lap as her mother’s words settled into her bones, a quiet fire lighting within her. She could endure this. She would survive. And perhaps—just perhaps—one day, she would reclaim everything stolen from her.

Outside, the night still clung to the streets of Kano, indifferent and silent. But inside the small room, among tears, whispers, and the gentle scent of henna, a bond had been sealed—an unbreakable promise between her mother and daughter, forged in fear, forged in love, and fortified in the quiet, simmering strength of two women facing the storm together.

Ameerah’s fingers touched the soft swirls of henna on her palms. The darkness beyond the walls threatened, but inside, she felt a spark—a fragile, defiant flame. The day ahead would come, and she would walk through it, bearing her fear and her courage as one.

And somewhere, beyond the walls of that small room, the world waited, unaware that a girl was about to face its judgments with the quiet, unstoppable force of a heart determined to survive.