The Bride He Never Wanted

CHAPTER FIVE — Pride and Pressure

Nassarawa GRA, Kano, Nigeria

Flashback continues —

The Ibrahim compound had lost its rhythm entirely. Where laughter, chatter, and the clinking of fine china had once marked the arrival of a wedding day, now there was only a hollow silence, broken by the occasional sharp command or muffled sob. Sunlight slanted through the grand windows, highlighting the meticulous decorations that had been painstakingly arranged the night before—white flowers drooping slightly, ribbons half-twisted, chairs out of place. The space felt like a graveyard of celebration, a monument to absence and humiliation.

Hajiya Ruqaiyya sat in the sitting room, hands clasped tightly in her lap, her face pale and drawn. Her eyes, rimmed red from sleepless worry, swept the compound as if she could see her daughter somewhere among the marble floors and gold-trimmed walls. Pride had always defined her—a mother who raised her daughter with dignity and grace—but today that pride was fractured, raw from grief and fear.

“This… this cannot happen,” she whispered to herself, voice shaking. She stood, pacing slowly, hands pressed against her temples. “The shame, the gossip… the humiliation…” Her words trailed off, heavy in the thick, tense air.

Finally, she turned to Hajiya Maryam, Rayhan’s mother, who stood with folded arms, sharp and unyielding as ever. “We cannot proceed,” Ruqaiyya said firmly, swallowing against the lump in her throat. “The girl… my daughter… she is gone. We should cancel the ceremony quietly, save face. Avoid further disgrace.”

Maryam’s eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. Her voice was ice against Ruqaiyya’s warmth. “Cancel? And admit weakness? And let them think we can be humiliated by a girl who left us? Wallahi, never. My son must marry in the next two weeks, and the wedding will happen—no excuses. No whispers, no rumors. Nothing will stand in its way.”

Ruqaiyya’s hands shook. “But, Maryam… the scandal is already spreading. Nassarawa GRA—everyone is talking. They are calling her disappearance a disgrace, a defiance. A bride cannot vanish and leave a family to face public humiliation. We will only make it worse if we go forward.”

Maryam stepped closer, her voice rising just enough to cut through the thick tension. “Do you think I care for whispers? Do you think the city’s gossip matters? Wallahi, Ruqaiyya, pride is stronger than shame. My son is my legacy. My son must marry, and no one—no one—will dictate how this family is seen.”

Ruqaiyya’s chest tightened. She felt the knot of grief in her heart grow heavier, raw with pain and worry. But even as she spoke, a spark of determination flickered in her eyes—a subtle, almost wicked edge, born not only of maternal fear but of desire. Her daughter had been promised to Rayhan from childhood; she had nurtured the bond, whispered stories of love and duty, and carefully prepared Zainab for this union. Now, in the chaos, part of her grief twisted into obsession. Only her daughter—her Zainab—could occupy that place. No other woman would take what had been planned for years. No other hand would hold Rayhan’s.

“I cannot ignore what has happened… the girl is gone. And yet, you would press forward without a thought? Without… concern for her safety?” Ruqaiyya’s voice was quieter now, but no less fierce. “Do you not see my heart breaking?”

Maryam’s gaze hardened. “Concern for her safety? Ruqaiyya, she made her choice. She disappeared. We cannot waste time lamenting what she has done. My son’s life, our family’s honor—these cannot wait. We proceed.”

Ruqaiyya’s lips pressed into a thin line, fighting tears she refused to shed in front of such iron resolve. Her mind spun. Every whispered thought of fear for Zainab’s safety coexisted with a sharper, more dangerous thought: if she could not control the public humiliation, she could at least ensure her daughter’s place—if Zainab returned, if she truly wanted Rayhan, no other woman would replace her. The very thought made her chest tighten, a mix of hope, fear, and possessiveness.

Maryam turned toward the doorway, her heels clicking sharply against the marble. She paused, glancing back at Ruqaiyya. “Prepare yourself, Ruqaiyya. The next two weeks will be hard. The city will watch, the gossip will swell, and my son… he will not wait. He will not falter. We cannot allow absence to define us. The wedding will happen, and all will see the strength of this family.”

Ruqaiyya swallowed hard, jaw tight, eyes brimming with unshed tears. Pride wrestled with fear in her chest—fear for her daughter, for her safety, for the unknown that had taken her away. She wanted to scream, to fight, to insist—but Maryam’s dominance, her unwavering command, left her silent.

But in the quiet spaces of her mind, Ruqaiyya plotted subtly. The next two weeks would be painful, yes, but they would also be an opportunity. If Zainab returned, Ruqaiyya would ensure no one else could step into the role that had been planned for her daughter. Every decision, every action, every whisper could tilt the scales in her favor. The motherly grief masked a cunning edge, a flicker of wickedness she barely acknowledged even to herself.

The evening sun cast long shadows across the compound, illuminating the half-arranged flowers, the chairs still slightly askew, the silent whispers of guests who had come and gone in a flurry of preparation. The weight of expectation pressed down like a stone in Ruqaiyya’s chest. She knew the next fourteen days would be unbearable—every moment a battle between hope, fear, grief, and pride. And somewhere in that pressure, a small, almost guilty thrill settled in her chest: she would ensure her daughter’s place, no matter what it took.

Ruqaiyya rose slowly, straightening her back, forcing herself to breathe through the ache in her chest. Her eyes drifted to the doorway, imagining Zainab’s face, her eyes wide and defiant, a mixture of fear and courage. She whispered a prayer under her breath, fingers tightening around the fabric of her sleeve.

Ya Allah… protect my daughter… guide her… keep her safe… and let her not falter…

In the study, Rayhan stood, eyes fixed on the horizon as the last rays of sunlight dipped beneath the rooftops of Nassarawa GRA. His fists clenched at his sides, body rigid, mind racing with plans and fury. The letter that had arrived the day before, the one declaring Zainab’s departure with another man, burned in his chest like fire.

“She cannot have done this without consequences,” he muttered to himself, voice low, dangerous. “She will answer for this. She will.”

The compound was quiet now, tension thick in the heavy evening air. Preparations would continue. Guests would arrive. Tables would be set. Flowers would be arranged. But beneath it all, beneath the polished surfaces and controlled smiles, a storm was brewing—a storm of maternal grief, of male pride, of fury and defiance, all colliding with the absent girl at its center.

And deep in Hajiya Ruqaiyya’s heart, even as she bowed to Maryam’s insistence, a quiet, dangerous thought lingered: My daughter must have what is hers… and no one else will take it.

The next two weeks would test every ounce of courage, every shred of pride, every thread of patience. And by the time the wedding day arrived, the outcome of this storm—of choices made, refusals issued, and whispers left unsaid—would decide more than just the union of two people. It would determine the fate of a family’s honor, the life of a girl who had dared to defy them all, and the subtle, cunning power of a mother who would not yield.