The Bride He Never Wanted

CHAPTER SEVEN — Rayhan’s Mother Investigates

Kano, Nigeria

PRESENT DAY—

Midnight came. The world outside seemed to hold its breath. The streets of Kano lay in silence, the city shrouded in darkness, but within Maria’s compound, tension pulsed like a living heartbeat.

Ameerah sat up on her thin mattress, chest heaving, heart pounding so violently she thought it might shatter. Suddenly, a car horn blared—long, urgent, commanding. The courtyard gate rattled, men’s voices rose in heated, urgent tones, and heavy knocks echoed against the wooden doors.

Her stepfather, Mallam Usman, appeared in the hallway, voice booming:

“Who are you? What do you want at this hour?”

Then a deep, commanding, unfamiliar voice cut through the chaos:

“I’m here for Ameerah.”

Ameerah’s blood froze. Her breath caught. Her heart slammed against her ribs, threatening to escape. Someone had come. Someone was demanding her. But who?

The door opened, and the figure that entered exuded quiet power and authority—Hajiya Maryam, Rayhan’s mother. The household fell silent. Even the walls seemed to lean in, listening. Ameerah’s eyes widened; she had never imagined that the mother of her prospective husband would come in person, at this hour, to see her.

Maryam’s gaze swept across the room. She noticed the faint fingerprints imprinted on Hajiya Mariya’s face, angry red marks from some previous altercation. She said nothing, keeping her composure, but the understanding in her eyes was sharp and clear. She saw the danger, the cruelty that lingered here like a shadow.

“I would like to speak with your daughter in private,” Maryam said, voice calm but unyielding.

Maria hesitated, eyes flicking to her husband. Mallam Usman’s face contorted, eager and calculating. He gave Ameerah a sharp, assessing glare, eyes gleaming with the desperate desire to win Maryam’s favor—as if bowing, as if licking the very ground she walked on, would earn her approval. Hajiya Maryam caught the look, and a flicker of contempt crossed her face. This display of desperation only strengthened her resolve: she would protect this girl.

Mariya quietly left the room, leaving the two women alone.

Maryam gestured to a chair. “Sit,” she instructed, firm but gentle. Ameerah obeyed, lowering herself with trembling hands, gaze fixed on the floor. Maryam studied her—shoulders tense, hands fidgeting, eyes wide with fear—and she saw the quiet suffering the girl had endured.

“My husband’s friend, Mallam Bashir, spoke highly of you,” Maryam began, her voice steady, measured. “He suggested you as a bride for my son. That is why I am here.”

Ameerah remained silent, the weight of her words pressing on her chest, suffocating and heavy.

Maryam leaned forward slightly, her voice softer, almost gentle, but carrying an unmistakable weight. “The previous bride… she ran away. On her wedding day. She vanished. Left everything behind. Do you understand what that means for a family, for a son, for the household?”

Ameerah’s fingers clenched in her lap. Her pulse thudded painfully in her ears. Maryam’s gaze, steady and sharp, did not waver. “I hope… I pray… that you will not do the same. That you will not leave us in chaos or dishonor. Do you understand?”

Ameerah lowered her eyes and nodded faintly, afraid to speak.

Maryam’s expression softened slightly, but the seriousness in her eyes never faded. “Tell me truthfully… do you want this marriage?”

Ameerah swallowed, throat tight. Words lodged somewhere deep inside. Slowly, cautiously, she nodded again.

Maryam’s eyes searched her face. The tremor in Ameerah’s hands, the hesitation in her movements, the flicker of fear in her eyes—all of it spoke volumes. “Is anyone forcing you?” she asked, voice steady but probing.

“No,” Ameerah whispered, barely audible.

A flicker of relief crossed Maryam’s face. She nodded once, firmly, and gave a subtle command. “Wait here.”

Minutes later, the soft rumble of a car engine approached. Maryam’s driver arrived, carrying fifteen carefully wrapped boxes, polished and gleaming even in the dim light. Maryam motioned for them to be brought inside.

“These are your gifts,” she explained as Ameerah’s eyes widened, taking in the weight and significance of the boxes. “Clothes, shoes, cosmetics, deodorants, bags, laces, ankara fabrics, jewelry… everything you will need for the wedding and after.”

Ameerah’s fingers trembled as she reached for the boxes. Her chest constricted; tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. The weight of all she had been through—the fear, the suffering, the unknown—pressed heavily upon her.

Maryam’s voice dropped, soft but imbued with authority: “In Hausa culture, this is called kayan lefe. It is given to the bride by the groom’s family. It is not just gifts—it is honor, respect, recognition. It celebrates your entry into a new life, equips you for it, and reminds you that you are valued.”

Ameerah’s breath caught. She stared at the boxes, overwhelmed by the meaning, the gesture, and the responsibility entrusted to her. She swallowed hard, holding back tears.

Maryam stepped closer, her hand resting firmly on Ameerah’s shoulder. “I see the fear in your eyes,” she said softly, yet every word carried weight. “I see the burden you carry. But hear me—while I am aware, you will not suffer. You will not be harmed. Do you understand?”

Ameerah nodded, overwhelmed by the intensity of the promise.

Maryam’s eyes softened, warmth threading through the quiet authority she radiated. She embraced Ameerah firmly, a hug that spoke of protection, care, and a silent vow to shield her from harm. A rare moment of safety, maternal care, and belonging. She pulled back slightly but kept her hand on Ameerah’s shoulder.

“Rest tonight,” she whispered, voice low, determined. “Tomorrow, a new chapter begins. Remember, you are not alone. I will act to ensure your dignity, your safety, and your honor.”

Ameerah exhaled shakily, hands brushing over the kayan lefe, the tangible weight of love, care, and protection. For the first time in what felt like forever, she allowed herself to hope.

Outside the room, Mallam Usman’s eager eyes followed Maryam, still silently pleading for her approval. His desire to impress her, to gain her favor, to be noticed, was palpable. Hajiya Maryam did not glance in his direction. Her vow to protect Ameerah far outweighed anything he could offer. The glare he had cast at Ameerah earlier lingered—a sharp reminder of the household’s fear and ambition—but she would not allow him to dominate this girl’s spirit.

The car doors closed. The engine hummed softly into the night, and the city remained oblivious to the quiet transformation within that small room. Surrounded by the kayan lefe, Ameerah felt a spark of hope ignite.

Hajiya Maryam’s silent promise lingered, a protective shield and a vow to herself: this girl would not suffer while she could prevent it.

And for the first time in a long time, Ameerah allowed herself to hope.

Somewhere beyond the gate, Mallam Usman’s frustrated glare remained, powerless against the quiet, unyielding authority of a woman who would not be swayed by his desperation.