The Bride He Never Wanted

CHAPTER EIGHT — The Threat

The night pressed down like a suffocating weight over Mariya’s compound. Kano lay wrapped in slumber, streets empty and silent, but inside, tension clung to every corner like a living thing. Ameerah sat cross-legged on the thin mattress, the boxes of kayan lefe stacked around her like silent witnesses. Her hands brushed over the neatly wrapped packages, the smell of fresh fabrics and perfume lingering in the air. Each box was more than a gift—it was a promise, an honor, a gesture of care from a woman she barely knew. And yet, it felt fragile, vulnerable, hanging by a thread over a life she did not want.

The wooden door slammed open with a c***k that shook the room. Mallam Usman’s shadow fell across the boxes, long and menacing in the dim moonlight. His eyes gleamed with greed, his jaw tight with fury.

“What is this?” he barked, voice low and dangerous. “Who gave you permission to touch these? Who allowed this?”

Ameerah shrank instinctively, but Mariya stepped forward, jaw firm, eyes blazing with quiet fury. “These boxes belong to Ameerah,” she said, voice shaking but deliberate. “She will use them as she sees fit. You forced her into this marriage—allow her at least this dignity.”

Mallam Usman’s lips curled into a cruel, contemptuous smile. “Dignity?” he hissed. “Do not speak to me of dignity. Everything she owns, everything she will wear, belongs to me. Every stitch, every jewel, every item is mine to command!”

“No!” Mariya’s voice cracked but did not break. “She is not yours! She will not be treated as property under your rule!”

A violent slap struck Mariya across her cheek, the sound sharp and terrifying in the small room. Pain flared, hot and raw, but she did not collapse. Instead, she straightened, breaths coming in short, jagged bursts, her eyes locked on her daughter.

“Stop it!” Ameerah screamed, voice trembling, stepping forward. “Leave her alone!”

Mallam Usman’s gaze swung toward her, dark and dangerous. “And you, little girl,” he growled, “you think you can defy me? That you can claim anything in this house without my say? Everything here is under my control—your obedience is mandatory!”

Ameerah’s chest heaved. Fear clawed at her, sharp and unrelenting, but beneath it stirred a new resolve, fragile but stubborn. She thought of Maryam, of the quiet power that had shielded her from complete despair, and a tiny ember of courage ignited.

“I… I will not marry him,” she whispered, voice quivering yet clear. “I refuse. I will not be forced into a life I do not want.”

Mallam Usman froze, as if he had not expected such audacity. His dark eyes narrowed, burning with rage. “You dare! You dare refuse me?” His hand shot out, fingers trembling with fury. “You will regret this insolence!”

He swung, striking Mariya again, but Mariya stood firm, teeth clenched, body rigid. Ameerah’s heart thundered in her chest. She could not bear to see her mother suffer. She could not—yet she knew she had to act.

Her chest tightened, and a thought, heavy and painful, took root: the only way to protect her mother was to endure. Her throat constricted, but she whispered, almost to herself, “If it is the only way to protect her… I will endure. I will marry him. But no harm will come to her because of me.”

Mallam Usman’s eyes narrowed, suspicion and satisfaction twisting his features. He advanced again, hand raised to strike, but something in Ameerah’s calm defiance gave him pause. Not fear, not submission, but a quiet, simmering strength. It enraged him.

“You will obey me!” he hissed, voice low, cold, and dangerous. “And you will start immediately. Every piece of this kayan lefe, every dress, every jewel—it is your duty to prepare yourself to meet her son as his bride. Fail me, and you and your mother will be thrown out into the street!”

Ameerah swallowed, nodding slightly. She did not raise her eyes. Her fingers lingered on the boxes, tracing the edges of fabric, feeling the weight of the sacrifice she was about to make. Her chest ached, lungs tight, and yet, beneath the fear, a tiny seed of determination grew. She would endure. She would survive. And she would protect her mother.

Mallam Usman glared, a final, searing look that promised vengeance and cruelty. Then he left, the door slamming behind him with a force that rattled the walls. The sound left a ringing silence, heavy with the echoes of rage and fear.

Ameerah sank to her knees among the boxes, chest heaving. Her hands gripped the first box tightly, knuckles white. She breathed in slowly, trying to calm the storm raging inside her. She thought of Maryam, of the warmth and protection she had promised, and it lent her a sliver of strength.

Mariya lowered herself beside her daughter, hand trembling as it brushed Ameerah’s. Her cheek burned, the pain a reminder of the cruelty they faced. But she met her daughter’s gaze, seeing the steel behind the trembling frame. “You are so brave, my child,” she whispered. “You are making a sacrifice for us, for me… and I will never forget it. I will never allow them to break you.”

Ameerah leaned into her mother for a brief moment, feeling the strength in the shared silence. The kayan lefe boxes stood around her, silent, gleaming in the moonlight like sentinels guarding a fragile hope. Clothes, shoes, cosmetics, laces, ankara fabrics, jewelry—they were more than gifts; they were symbols of dignity, of the life Maryam had promised to protect, of the culture and respect woven into every piece.

She touched the boxes with reverence, feeling the gravity of the Hausa tradition. In this culture, the kayan lefe was sacred—a recognition of the bride’s honor, a celebration of her passage into a new life, and a pledge from the groom’s family that she would be valued. Each item she lifted was heavy not just with fabric, but with responsibility, survival, and the weight of her own courage.

Ameerah’s chest ached with a bitter mix of sorrow and resolve. She would endure, she told herself, she would survive, and she would do it without allowing Mallam Usman to dominate their spirits. She would not let him win, not over her mother, not over her dignity.

Outside, the night seemed still, almost indifferent. But within the small room, surrounded by gifts and shadows, two women shared a silent promise: that even in the darkest hour, they would survive. That courage could exist in the quietest, smallest of forms—and sometimes, it could outshine the loudest tyranny.

Ameerah’s fingers lingered on a delicate piece of jewelry in one of the boxes, the cool metal grounding her in the present. Her lips pressed together, holding back tears, fear, and rage. Tonight, she would rest. Tomorrow, she would face the impossible. And in her heart, a small, stubborn fire burned: one day, somehow, she would reclaim her life.

And somewhere, outside the closed door, Mallam Usman’s glare lingered—a warning, a threat—but it could not reach the quiet, unyielding resolve of a girl determined to endure and protect the only person she truly loved.

The night stretched on, heavy, tense, and merciless. But within that room, among the expensive boxes, a spark of rebellion had been lit, small and fragile, yet impossible to extinguish.

Ameerah’s eyes closed briefly. Her breaths came in shaky, uneven waves, but her fists remained clenched. She was ready. The world could threaten, could strike, could demand obedience—but she had chosen a path, painful as it was, and she would walk it with courage, no matter how high the price.

And as the first faint light of dawn threatened the horizon, a quiet promise formed in her heart: she would survive this. And she would not allow anyone to destroy the bond she shared with her mother.