The Bride He Never Wanted

CHAPTER THREE — Echoes of Zainab

Nassarawa GRA, Kano, Nigeria

Flashback—

The morning of the wedding had been warm, suffused with the scent of fresh flowers and the sharp tang of anticipation. The sun rose lazily over Nassarawa GRA, spilling gold across the manicured lawns and pristine fences of Rayhan’s family compound. In the air was the low hum of nervous excitement, the faint whisper of silk and perfume, and somewhere beneath it all, the unshakable tension that comes when tradition, wealth, and ego collide.

Zainab had been radiant. She’d woken before dawn, makeup carefully applied, henna curling along her palms in intricate spirals. Her abaya, cream and gold, glimmered in the soft morning light. She had smiled at her reflection, whispered a quiet prayer, and imagined the life she would step into—one of comfort, respect, and the love of a man she’d known since childhood. The wedding had been planned for years, the families long having agreed that she, his cousin, would become his bride.

But by mid-morning, the compound buzzed with confusion.

Zainab was gone.

At first, whispers were hushed, polite—“Perhaps she’s in her room.” “Maybe she’s helping with last-minute arrangements.” But as the minutes dragged into an hour, the whispers grew louder, their tones edged with panic and accusation. The wedding could not start. Rayhan’s mother paced, glancing at the clock, hands wringing the hem of her scarf. The housemaids scurried nervously, trying to locate the bride, their eyes wide with fear.

By the time the sun hung high, the story had spread beyond the walls of the mansion. Drivers and neighbors gathered at the gates, exchanging hushed rumors. Nassarawa GRA was a place where everyone knew everyone else’s secrets, and Zainab’s sudden disappearance became the hottest one of the day..

“Have you seen Zainab?” a neighbor called across a hedge.

“Vanished!” another replied. “No one has seen her since sunrise!”

Rayhan’s father, a proud man with a sharp jaw and narrower patience, erupted in frustration. “This is an insult! A wedding morning, and she disappears? How dare she humiliate this family?”

Rayhan, twenty-eight and accustomed to respect bending to his will, felt a mixture of panic and rage swirl in his chest. His gaze darted around the compound, searching for the faintest clue, the smallest indication that she was still somewhere inside the mansion. But the rooms were empty, the windows still, the scent of her perfume lingering only faintly in the air, a cruel reminder that she had been there—and now she wasn’t.

The humiliation wasn’t just private. Word traveled fast in Nassarawa GRA. By mid-afternoon, the story had made its way through the gardens, along the streets, into local cafes, and through the buzzing chatter of housewives gossiping over steaming cups of tea.

“She left him,” someone whispered, clutching a teacup. “Just like that, on the morning of the wedding.”

“They say her family couldn’t care less,” another added. “And look at Rayhan’s family—they’ve been humiliated. What a disgrace!”

In the mansion, tempers flared. The men of Rayhan’s household exchanged furious glances. Their pride, meticulously cultivated over generations, was shattered. Every servant, every relative, every guest felt the tension ripple through the air, thick as smoke.

And then the questions began:

“Why would she do this?”

“Was she scared?”

“Did someone—take her?”

The answers never came.

By evening, the compound resembled a battlefield of silent accusation. Rayhan’s father demanded explanations, voices rising in anger, footsteps echoing down long corridors. The wedding planners, flustered, shuffled papers and schedules, unsure whether to proceed or cancel. Every decoration, every string of lights, every carefully prepared dish felt meaningless without the bride to honor it.

Somewhere, outside the compound, the gossip had taken on a life of its own. Children whispered to each other across streets, women shook their heads, shaking the same invisible thread that tied them all to the scandal. It was a stain on Rayhan’s family name—a stain that, despite wealth, power, and influence, no one could ignore.

Back in the mansion, Rayhan stood frozen in the hallway. He felt anger, humiliation, and a strange, piercing panic gnaw at the edges of his mind. How could a girl vanish without a trace on the very morning she was supposed to commit herself to him? How could she abandon a life carefully planned since childhood, an arrangement sanctioned by families, and everything he was supposed to take for granted?

He clenched his fists, jaw tight. Every second stretched into eternity, each moment thick with unanswered questions.

Rayhan’s mother wept quietly in the sitting room, a woman usually proud and imperious reduced to shivering vulnerability. “They will talk,” she murmured. “They will say we are fools. That we were too hasty.”

Rayhan’s older sister, Fatima, whispered under her breath, anger and disbelief twisting her tone. “Why would she do this? Why now? Who vanishes like this and leaves a family to face ridicule?”

The servants avoided eye contact, shuffling about, muttering excuses to themselves. The entire household had turned into a theatre of chaos, all because a young woman had disappeared hours before she was supposed to become a bride.

What no one realized, not even Rayhan, was that Zainab’s disappearance had not been spontaneous. It had been deliberate.

The girl had left quietly, her mind steeling itself against the enormity of what awaited her. She had walked past decorated courtyards, flower-laden gates, and the eyes of a thousand onlookers. Each step she took felt like an act of rebellion, a tiny burst of freedom in a world that demanded obedience. She had vanished before anyone could claim her, leaving behind only whispers, a faint scent of rosewater, and the chaos that would forever mark that day in Nassarawa GRA.

By sunset, the compound was empty in spirit, if not in body. Rayhan paced the marble floors, frustration rising in sharp, uneven waves. He had a right to his bride. Tradition demanded it. Family demanded it. But the girl had refused. She had become the ghost of the morning, leaving questions, shame, and anger in her wake.

Outside, the gossip continued to spread, becoming exaggerated, distorted, impossible to ignore. Stories of ransom, k********g, and scandal circled through the neighborhood. Every passerby had an opinion; every shopkeeper repeated versions of the tale that grew more sensational with each retelling. By evening, the entire GRA hummed with the story of a bride who had disappeared on the very day of her wedding.

Rayhan’s father slumped into his chair, white hair catching the fading light, knuckles drumming angrily against the armrest. “Our name,” he whispered, “our dignity… gone because of one girl.”

Rayhan, standing rigid in the hall, stared at the empty room where she had been dressed for the ceremony hours before. A dull anger mingled with confusion, a gnawing feeling he didn’t understand. Why would she vanish? Who had taken her, if anyone? Was it rebellion? Fear? Or something darker?

The whispers continued outside. The sun dipped below the horizon, and the first lights of the evening glimmered against the GRA’s white fences, mocking the family’s humiliation.

And then, just as the shadows stretched long and sharp across the polished floors, a messenger arrived. Breathless, he delivered a single envelope to Rayhan’s father.

The handwriting was unfamiliar. Elegant, precise. And chilling in its simplicity:

“She will not come. Do as you must. The shame is yours now.”

Rayhan tore the paper from the envelope, hands trembling slightly, and his father read it aloud. The words hung in the air, heavy, suffocating, echoing through the empty hallways like a verdict no one could appeal.

Silence followed.

Then Rayhan’s mother broke into quiet sobs. Fatima’s hands flew to her mouth, eyes wide. Servants froze. Rayhan’s fists clenched, knuckles white, teeth grinding against frustration and confusion.

Zainab’s disappearance was no longer just a scandal. It had become a wound—deep, raw, and impossible to ignore.

The evening air grew cold in the compound. Lights flickered against the walls, casting long shadows that seemed to crawl along the floors. Every corner, every corridor whispered the story of a vanished bride.

And in that silence, in that darkness, a question lingered.

Where was Zainab?

No one had answers.

And no one would know… not yet.