Married to my worst enemy

 *MARRIED TO MY WORST ENEMY*  A Novel by *Precious*  *Part 1: He Ruined My Life*  My name is Zainab Bello. I’m 29. And I’m married to the man I swore I would never speak to again.  3 years ago, Chike Okonkwo ruined me.  We were in 400L at ABU Zaria. Mass Comm. He was the fine boy with the deep voice and the big ego. Campus President. Jerseys, sneakers, and an aura that said _everyone knows me_.   I was the opposite. Hijab, glasses, first class target, no time for boys. My daddy was an Imam in Kano. My mum sold fabrics at Kantin Kwari Market. We didn’t play.  Chike and I were forced to be group project partners. For 3 months we fought over everything. Font size. References. Who was presenting. Who was doing the research.  “You think you’re better than everyone,” he told me one day in the library.  “And you think the world revolves around you,” I snapped back.  We hated each other. Properly. The kind of hate that was loud.  Until the night before our final presentation. NEPA took light at 8pm. Our slides weren’t done. The lab was the only place with a generator.   So we stayed. Till 2am.   He bought me Gala and Coke from the night vendor. We laughed about our lecturer who always mispronounced “sociology.” He told me about his mum who died when he was 10. Breast cancer. I told him about my little brother Yusuf who had sickle cell.   For 6 hours, my worst enemy felt like my best friend.  2 weeks later, our video went viral. Not the presentation.   Someone filmed us leaving the lab at 2am. Girl in hijab + boy. Then they edited it. Added captions: _“Campus President caught with hijabi girl in lab overnight. Is this what ABU has become? Parents, see your daughters.”_  It wasn’t true. Nothing happened. We were just working. But the internet doesn’t care about truth. And Zaria in 2021 was not ready for that narrative.  My dad saw it. The Imam. His daughter.   He didn’t shout. He just looked at me and said, “Pack your things. You’re coming home today.”  I was rusticated for “gross misconduct.” Chike got a warning letter because he was “a leader and should know better.”  My engagement to my cousin in Kano was broken the next week. “We can’t marry a girl with scandal. What will people say?”  My brother’s hospital bills? My dad stopped paying. “You brought shame to this family. Face the consequences.”  I blamed Chike. For laughing. For staying. For being a boy who could walk away clean while I burned.  I left Zaria and never looked back. I heard he graduated with a 2:1, moved to Lagos, and became a big tech bro. Founder of something.   I moved to Lagos too 2 years later. Broke. I sold Ankara on i********: from my room in Egbeda. Face-me-face-me. One bathroom for 8 tenants.   I told myself I was done with men. Done with Chike. Done with trusting people.  Until my biggest client DM’d me: _“Hi Zainab, I’d like to order 200 asoebi for my wedding. Can we meet? My fiancé will be there too. - Tolu”_  I clicked the profile.  Tagged in the photos: @chike.okonkwo.tech  My chest went cold.  *Part 2: The Contract We Didn’t Expect* I almost blocked her.   But 200 asoebi meant 2.4 million naira. That was rent for a year. That was my mum’s surgery money for her fibroid.  So I went.  We met at a restaurant in Lekki. All glass and plants. He walked in a black shirt and jeans. Beard. Wristwatch that probably cost more than my rent. He looked... successful. And tired.  He froze when he saw me.  “Zainab.”  “Chike.”  His fiancée, Tolu, was sweet. Loud Lagos girl. Gold teeth, big laugh. “Oh my God I love your page! The colors are everything! Chike, babe, isn’t her work beautiful?”  We talked business. 200 dresses. 2 months. 50% upfront. I was professional. He was professional.   After, he walked me to my Uber.  “I’m sorry,” he said fast. “For Zaria. For the video. I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve told them we were just working.”  “You didn’t,” I said. My voice was flat. “You let me take the fall.”  He looked down. “I know. I’ve hated myself for it every day.”  I got in the Uber. My hands were shaking.  The job went well. I delivered on time. Tolu and I became friendly over w******p. She sent me voice notes. She didn’t know about Zaria.  2 weeks before the wedding, Tolu called me crying at 1am.  “Zainab, please. Chike’s company is being investigated for fraud. His accounts are frozen. EFCC. It’s a mistake, but it’s next week’s wedding. The venue, the catering, the band... everything is due. Can you help us? Just lend us the money. He’ll pay you back. I promise.”  I had 1.8 million in my account. My mum’s surgery money.  That night I didn’t sleep. I made Istikhara. I called my mum.   At 6am I transferred it. 1.8 million.   I told myself it was for Tolu. Not for him.  The wedding happened. Big. 500 guests. I was there, in the Ankara I made, watching my worst enemy marry the girl who got everything I lost. Normal life. No scandal.  2 days later, Chike’s company was cleared. Accounting error. His money was released.  He transferred me 2.4 million. Plus 600k extra.  _“For your trouble. And for your kindness. - C”_  Then he texted: _“Can we talk? Not about money.”_  I didn’t reply for 3 weeks.  *Part 3: The Deal* 3 months later my mum got worse. She needed surgery in India. 7 million naira.   I had 2.4 million. I’d sold everything I could.  I swallowed my pride and called him.  “Chike, I need a loan.”  He came that evening. No Tolu.   I explained everything. Hospital bills. Doctor’s report. He listened. Then he said something that made me angry.  “I’ll pay for it. All of it. But on one condition.”  “What?”  “Marry me.”  I laughed. “Are you mad? Are you and Tolu...”  “We’re divorced,” he cut in. “2 months ago. The stress broke us.”  He sighed. “Not marry like that. Contract marriage. 1 year. For immigration purposes. My company is opening an office in Toronto. If I’m married, I get the visa and tax benefits faster. We live separately. Separate rooms. I pay for your mum’s surgery. Plus 5 million for you to restart. After 1 year, we divorce. No strings. No questions.”  I stared at him. “You want to use me.”  “You used to be my worst enemy,” he said quietly. “Now I just need someone I trust not to ruin me. And I trust you, Zainab. Even after everything.”  My mum died 2 weeks later. While I was still thinking. While I was waiting for “the right time.”   At the janazah, I looked at her grave and made a decision. For her. For Yusuf.  I said yes.   We did a small nikkah at a court in Ikeja. 4 witnesses. No one knew. Tolu didn’t even know.  We moved into a duplex in Magodo. Separate rooms. Separate lives. Separate everything.   He paid for everything. He was kind. Too kind. He asked about my day. He sent food to my shop. He fixed my generator without me asking.   And every night, I hated that I didn’t hate him anymore.  Month 4, his mum came from Canada. Hajia Okonkwo. Sharp eyes.  “Where’s my daughter-in-law?”  We had to act. Hold hands at dinner. Sleep in the same room for 3 nights. Separate beds pushed together.  One night there was thunder. I had a panic attack. I hadn’t had one since Zaria, since the day my dad looked at me like I was a stranger.  I was on the floor, breathing hard.  He found me. He didn’t touch me at first. “Zainab? Can I hold your hand?”  I nodded.   He held me. Didn’t say anything. Just held me until I stopped shaking.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered into my hair. “For everything. For Zaria. For now.”  I pulled away. “Don’t.”  But it was too late. The wall was cracking.  *Part 4: Choosing Each Other* Month 11. The divorce papers were on the table. Toronto visa was approved.   The night before we were supposed to sign, there was a fire in my shop in Yaba. Electrical fault. Everything burned. 3 years of work.   I sat on the curb at 3am and cried. Not for the clothes. For how tired I was. For how alone I felt.  Chike found me there. Someone had called him.  “Come home,” he said.  Back at Magodo, he made me tea. Mint. The way I liked it. We sat in silence.  “The papers are for tomorrow,” I said.  “I know.”  More silence. The generator was humming.  “Zainab,” he said. “I don’t want to sign.”  I looked up. “What?”  “I was an i***t in school. I was scared. My dad said ‘don’t get involved with scandal or you’ll lose everything.’ So I didn’t defend you. I let them believe the lie because it was easier.”  He took my hand. His was warm. “I didn’t ask you to marry me just for Canada. I asked because... I never stopped respecting you. Even when I was your enemy. Especially then. You were the only person who ever told me no.”  I cried. Ugly crying.  “You ruined my life, Chike.”  “I know. Let me spend the rest of it trying to fix it. Not with money. With me.”  We didn’t sign the papers.  Instead, 3 months later, we had a proper wedding. Small. 50 people. My dad came from Kano. He and Chike talked for a long time in the corner. At the end my dad hugged him. “Take care of my daughter, Chike. She’s been through a lot.”  We used the Canada money to open a bigger shop. _Bello & Okonkwo Fabrics_. 2 floors in Yaba. We employ 12 girls.  We have a daughter now. Amina. She’s 1. She has his eyes and my stubbornness and my dad’s Quran voice.  Do I still remember Zaria? Yes. Every time it rains I remember the shame.  Do I still get angry sometimes? Yes. When he leaves socks on the floor.  But I also remember the boy who bought me Gala at 2am. The man who held me during thunder. The husband who calls me every day at 1pm to ask if I’ve eaten.  *Epilogue: 2 Years Later* Last week Amina asked me, “Mummy, why is Daddy your worst enemy?”  Chike and I looked at each other and laughed.  “Because, baby,” I said, “sometimes the person who hurts you the most is the only one who knows exactly how to heal you.”  Chike pulled me to his side. “And sometimes your worst enemy becomes your best choice.” He was my worst enemy. And now he is my home.he was once the one I dispise so much, now he is everything to me. +back cover blurb* for _Married To My Worst Enemy by Precious_ s .