The Bride He Never Wanted

CHAPTER 10 — Nikkah

The Afficent Grand, Kano, Nigeria

The morning sun filtered softly through the cream curtains, casting warm streaks across Ameerah’s room. The faint scent of essential oils mingled with the rich, earthy aroma of black henna as the henna woman worked delicately over Ameerah’s hands and feet. Dark swirls and intricate designs curved over her skin, traditional yet stunning, each line a quiet testament to culture and expectation.

Her mother, Mariya, stood close, brushing stray strands of hair from Ameerah’s face. Tears shimmered in her eyes, though her voice remained steady as she whispered, “Umma is here. You will shine today, my daughter. You must… you must endure.”

Ameerah’s pulse thudded in her chest. Her hands, still cooling from the freshly applied black henna, trembled slightly. She traced the designs, memorizing each swirl, each spiral, wishing there were some talisman hidden in the curves to protect her from what was to come. The henna woman worked with calm precision, murmuring prayers under her breath as she completed the intricate patterns, a quiet rhythm filling the room.

Hajiya Maryam had arranged for a makeup artist to come early. The woman moved with graceful authority, her brushes gentle yet purposeful. Gold shimmer kissed Ameerah’s eyelids, her lashes curled to perfection, and soft rouge colored her cheeks. Every brushstroke seemed to remind her of the woman she could be—the bride expected of her—and yet, beneath the shimmer and polish, the trembling girl remained.

From one of the carefully packed boxes sent the night before, Ameerah lifted her outfit: an ivory lace gown, exquisitely tailored to hug every curve of her body. Gold embroidery traced the edges, tiny crystals catching the morning light in delicate sparks. A net veil flowed behind her, glimmering subtly with the shimmer of threads woven into it. Gold heels peeked beneath the gown’s hem, and a small matching gold purse rested neatly in her hands. She held it as if it were both shield and anchor.

Her reflection in the mirror made her catch her breath. She looked breathtaking, regal, almost unreal. The fear behind her wide eyes remained, but so did a flicker of courage.

Her stepfather’s voice rang suddenly through a call to Mariya: “It is done. The nikkah has been performed in the mosque. You can prepare for the reception.”

Outside her door, women quietly expressed their approval in the traditional Hausa fashion of Buda—holding their noses, voices rising in celebration. To those unfamiliar, it was a form of congratulation, a joyful and traditional exclamation for a bride, meant to honor and mark her passage into marriage. Ameerah felt a flush of embarrassment and awe, hearing the echoes of the ritual reverberate through the house, yet the tradition reminded her that despite fear and coercion, her day was sacred.

By mid-afternoon, after the final touches of makeup and the careful draping of her gown, Ameerah was ready. Mariya guided her to the waiting black SUV, hands gentle but firm. Every step was a careful negotiation between grace and nerves, the net veil flowing elegantly behind her, the gold of her accessories glinting in the light.

The convoy glided through the quiet streets of Kano, the city holding its breath for her arrival at The Afficent Grand. Inside the vehicle, Ameerah’s hands clenched the edge of her gown, the weight of expectation pressing against her chest. Her pulse raced, yet somewhere deep inside, a part of her marveled at the world she had been thrust into—a world of wealth, beauty, and meticulous perfection.

The Afficent Grand awaited in full splendor. Towering carved pillars framed the space, glittering chandeliers spilled warm light over tables draped in ivory and gold linens, and delicate floral arrangements lined every edge. The hall was grand, opulent, yet intimate, as if designed to contain the storm of emotion that was about to unfold.

And then she saw him.

Rayhan stood at the front near the dais, the sun catching the subtle gold embroidery on his ivory agbada, perfectly mirroring the tones of her gown. His posture was composed, his hands lightly clasped before him, shoulders squared. For a heartbeat, the world contracted, and all Ameerah could see was him.

Her eyes roamed over his face—strong jaw, full lips, sharp nose, and dark, commanding eyes. She admitted it silently, allowing herself to feel what she had fought to deny: he was undeniably handsome. Her breath caught, and for a few suspended seconds, she forgot everything else. She felt herself momentarily lost in the way the sun highlighted the curve of his jaw, the intensity of his stare, and the perfect symmetry of his features.

Rayhan’s gaze had already found her. His eyes traced her from the shimmering hem of her gown upward, taking in every curve, the elegance of her posture, the delicate embroidery that clung to her like liquid gold. She felt exposed, scrutinized, yet curiously empowered by the intensity of his attention. For an instant, the usual cold mask faltered.

He lingered, observing her face—her eyes, nose, lips—all features that were flawless and radiant under the soft mid-afternoon light. Yet even as his mind registered the undeniable attraction, he clung to the promise he had made to himself: no actions, no impulsive decisions, no breach of decorum. He admired silently, intensely, painfully.

Ameerah, too, allowed herself a fleeting surrender. She acknowledged his handsomeness, the sharpness of his features, the commanding aura he carried. She let her gaze linger a fraction too long, mesmerized, caught between admiration, fear, and the magnetic pull of what they both knew but did not speak.

The nikkah certificates lay ready. Her hands, still adorned with black Hausa henna, trembled as she approached. Rayhan’s dark eyes followed her with unwavering intensity, the warmth that had flickered earlier now carefully masked behind cold control. The pen felt heavy in her fingers as she signed, every stroke a surrender, every curve of ink a step into the life that awaited her.

When she handed the papers back, their fingers brushed for a mere heartbeat—light, almost accidental, yet igniting a warmth that neither could deny. His eyes softened again briefly, and she felt the echo of that softness in her chest, an unspoken acknowledgment of shared tension and unvoiced desire. Then, as always, he withdrew, the mask of cold composure returning with chilling precision.

The reception commenced with subdued applause. The Afficent Grand shimmered under chandeliers, the floral scents mingling with the faint perfume clinging to her skin. Guests in flowing gowns and tailored suits murmured quietly, careful not to disturb the fragile balance of new beginnings. Ameerah’s steps were measured, graceful, each one carrying the dual weight of fear and fascination.

Every glance she stole at Rayhan reminded her of the first instant they had truly looked at each other. His eyes, dark and sharp, softened for a heartbeat when he observed her hands, the delicate embroidery of her gown, the subtle curve of her waist. She felt simultaneously seen and exposed, the intensity of his attention both terrifying and intoxicating.

And though he returned to his cold, unreadable demeanor, the memory of those fleeting moments—the soft glance, the electric brush of fingers—was seared into Ameerah’s consciousness. It whispered that beneath the masks, the ceremony, and the expectations, something was stirring, fragile yet potent, waiting for the right moment to grow.

Hajiya Maryam’s invisible hand was everywhere. The subtle perfection of Ameerah’s gown, the delicate net veil, the jewelry that caught the golden light—everything was a reminder that even within fear and obligation, elegance and control could prevail.

And somewhere deep inside the hall, beneath the shimmering chandeliers, the delicate floral scent, and the hushed murmurs, the first heartbeat of their fated, complicated connection pulsed quietly, unseen but undeniable.

Outside, the mid-afternoon sun spilled over Kano, indifferent to the storm of emotions and secrets contained within the walls of the Afficent Grand. But inside, each heartbeat, each glance, each trembling step carried the weight of choices that could neither be undone nor ignored.

Ameerah made a silent vow as she adjusted the veil trailing behind her, fingers brushing the intricate lace: she would endure, she would survive, and she would uncover the truth of being Rayhan Ibrahim’s bride—whether he wanted her or not.

The storm had only just begun.