The Bride He Never Wanted

CHAPTER FOUR — The Search

Nassarawa GRA, Kano, Nigeria

Flashback continues —

The morning after Zainab’s disappearance, the Ibrahim compound felt hollow, as though life itself had been drained from its walls. The usual rhythm—footsteps, laughter, the clinking of cutlery—was replaced by a suffocating tension that pressed against the chest like a physical weight. Every corner, every corridor, seemed to echo with absence, amplifying the shame and unspoken questions that lingered like ghosts.

Servants moved like shadows, wary of their own movements, afraid to breathe too loudly. Cousins whispered behind pressed palms, casting furtive glances at Rayhan, who sat unmoving in the study. His jaw was rigid, hands clenched on the arms of his chair, knuckles pale and taut. Twenty-eight years old, used to commanding respect, bending wills, and maintaining control, yet in this moment, a single absence had shattered him. One missing bride had undone the carefully constructed world of his life.

Detective Suleiman arrived before the sun fully climbed, dark eyes sharp, scanning the compound with the precision of a man accustomed to chaos. Every officer, every clipboard, every whispered question felt inadequate against the enormity of the humiliation hanging over the Ibrahim family.

“Sir,” the detective began cautiously, voice low, careful, “we need details. Who saw her last? Who had contact with her before she vanished?”

Rayhan’s father slammed a fist against the polished marble desk, the sound reverberating through the room. “Enough! She should have been ready! This—this is an insult! A disgrace!”

Rayhan’s mother pressed trembling hands to her mouth, whispering soft prayers. “Please, Baba… let them do their work. We must find her,” she said, though her voice trembled beneath the weight of fear and shame.

Rayhan said nothing. The silence pressed like a living thing against the family, suffocating, heavy, sharper than any reprimand. Questions were asked, answers given, but each thread led only to a dead end. The house, once filled with anticipation, now seemed frozen in judgment, echoing with whispers and restrained panic.

By mid-morning, the story had already spread beyond the compound gates. Shopkeepers murmured the tale, embellishing each detail: Zainab had vanished; another man was involved; the Ibrahim family had been humiliated.

“She left him,” a neighbor whispered, incredulity slicing through the quiet. “On her wedding day.”

“They say another man is involved,” another voice added, eyes darting nervously. “Can you imagine? To just disappear like that?”

Inside the mansion, tension coiled like a serpent ready to strike. Fatima paced the marble floors, hands clenched, muttering harshly, “Why would she do this? Why ruin everything?” The walls, once carefully decorated for celebration, seemed to close in, mocking the day’s intended joy.

Servants and staff avoided eye contact, shuffling through tasks with nervous urgency, afraid any misstep would draw blame. Wedding planners stood frozen, unsure how to salvage months of preparation, while flowers wilted under the unforgiving sun, fabrics draped unevenly, echoing the absence of the bride. Every decoration, every meticulously placed detail, became a silent accusation.

Hours dragged on. Pens clicked, notepads scratched, and the hum of unanswered questions stretched across the Ibrahim household. Then, just as the sun hovered toward the horizon, a sleek black car glided through the gates. From it stepped a man whose presence caused a subtle shift in the room: Zainab’s father, back from being out of the country. His face was drawn, heavy with remorse, shoulders stooped under the weight of shame and responsibility.

He approached slowly, hands raised slightly in apology. “I… I come to apologize,” he began, voice rough with emotion. “For my daughter, for the humiliation… for everything.”

Rayhan’s father’s eyes narrowed, the room thick with unsaid words. “Your daughter,” he said slowly, voice low and dangerous,, “chose to vanish on the day she was to honor my family. What do you intend to do about it?”

Zainab’s father swallowed hard, his throat tight. “I am here to discuss… to make amends where I can. I was away, and I cannot undo her actions. I only ask that we speak, calmly, as men of our families should.”

Rayhan’s father’s jaw tightened. The two men stepped into a private study, the heavy doors closing behind them. Outside, the household held its breath. Even the air seemed to pause, as though listening to the gravity of the conversation unfolding behind solid walls.

Inside, the discussion was bleak, words measured, laden with tension and the weight of scandal. “She left,” Rayhan’s father said, voice like gravel. “This is not simply a personal slight. It is an affront to the Ibrahim name, to the family honor. You understand the gravity?”

Zainab’s father bowed his head, ashamed. “I do. I failed as her father. She acted recklessly, and I… I could not prevent it. All I can do now is attempt repair, where repair is possible.”

The two men exchanged a tense silence, each weighing the other’s resolve, the gravity of family reputation pressing between them like a vise. The air felt charged, brittle with history and expectation, as though any misstep might shatter it entirely.

Rayhan’s father exhaled sharply, the weight of decades of pride and expectation heavy in his chest. “Do you understand,” he said finally, “that she has jeopardized not only your family’s reputation but mine as well? This is not something easily forgiven.”

“I understand,” Zainab’s father admitted, voice trembling, eyes darkened with remorse. “I can only apologize, and I can only hope…” His words faltered. “…that time may soften what has been broken. I had no hand in her decision, but I am accountable for it, nonetheless.”

The room fell into a grim quiet. Outside, servants whispered to each other, the tension thick, the household aware that this conversation could define the remainder of the week, perhaps the family’s place in society for months to come.

By evening, the neighborhood had become a theater of whispers, speculation growing like wildfire. Every new story magnified the humiliation, spreading tales of elopement, scandal, and betrayal. The Ibrahim name, once synonymous with respect and dignity, now hung in balance, fragile as glass, a cautionary tale whispered over tea and behind walls.

Rayhan retreated to the study once more, isolated among familiar walls that felt suddenly alien. The absence of Zainab was a gaping wound, one he could neither ignore nor heal. The first stars blinked in the indifferent night sky, witnesses to the storm of human pride, shame, and fury.

And in the quiet of that looming darkness, a single thought crystallized in Rayhan’s mind: Zainab’s absence would not go unchallenged. The reckoning was only beginning, and he would ensure the world remembered that no girl, no matter how bold, could defy the Ibrahim family without consequence.

The storm had only begun.