FORECASTING LOVE IN MARRIAGE

CHAPTER 4– "I SHOULD BE ON TRACK"

– "I SHOULD BE ON TRACK"~

The silence that followed Mariam’s exit was a living entity, and it chased Abdulsalam out of his own home. He stood in the living room, the echo of his own words—“a liability,” “a weight,” “must be shed”—bouncing off the walls, each repetition a hammer against his own skull. He had not just crossed a line; he had obliterated it, and the crater he left behind was too vast to face.

He grabbed his keys and a single briefcase, mumbling something about “needing space to manage the crisis” to the unresponsive air. No one stopped him. Fatimah had retreated to her room, the sound of her muffled sobs a faint, accusatory soundtrack. Khalid was gone, likely to the sanctuary of his room, his silence more damning than any outburst. And Mariam… Mariam was behind the closed study door, a fortress he had no courage to besiege.

For three days, he lived in a sterile hotel suite in the city center. The plush carpets and floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of Abuja’s gleaming ambition, a landscape that usually fueled his own. Now, it felt like a mockery. He was a king in a glass tower, watching his kingdom crumble from a distance.

His phone was a battleground. Nasir’s calls were constant, a stream of strategic updates and reassurances. “The denial is strong, sir. We’re framing it as a dirty trick. The narrative is shifting.” But the words felt slick, insubstantial. Every time he saw Nasir’s name on the caller ID, Mariam’s voice echoed in his mind: “The snake is not in the grass. It is in the house.”

He ignored calls from party members. He couldn’t bear their veiled questions and performative concern. The only calls he answered were from his driver, and only to instruct him to check on the family discreetly. The reports were always the same: “The Madam is fine. The children are going to school.” There was never, “They asked about you.” Mariam had not called. Not once. Her silence was a profound and terrifying punishment. It wasn’t the heat of anger; it was the absolute zero of indifference.

On the third afternoon, driven by a restless, gnawing guilt, he decided to go to his office. Not the main entrance, where reporters might still be camped, but through the private underground garage. His driver navigated the back streets, and at a red light near the Transcorp Hilton, Abdulsalam’s gaze drifted to the outdoor cafe of the White House restaurant, a popular power-lunch spot.

And there, he saw them.

Sitting at a secluded table, partially shaded by a large umbrella, were Hon. Kabiru Danladi and Nasir Suleiman. They weren’t arguing; they were leaning in, conversing with an easy, familiar intimacy. Kabiru laughed, his gold tooth glinting, and clapped Nasir on the shoulder. Nasir smiled in return—a genuine, unguarded smile, not the careful, respectful curve he reserved for Abdulsalam. Then, in a gesture that froze the blood in Abdulsalam’s veins, Nasir pulled out a sleek, silver laptop from his bag and slid it across the table to Kabiru.

It was the laptop Nasir used exclusively for his campaign work.

The traffic light turned green. The car moved forward, but Abdulsalam’s world had just slammed to a halt. The air left his lungs. The coincidences, the denials, the perfectly timed leaks—they crystallized into one, undeniable truth. Mariam was right. Binta was right. Khalid was right. He had been a fool, a king so blinded by his own crown he never noticed his most trusted advisor poisoning his wine.

“Stop the car,” he croaked.

“Sir?”

“I said stop the car!”

The driver pulled over. Abdulsalam stared out the window, unseeing. The image of Nasir and Kabiru was burned into his retina. It was more than betrayal; it was a surgical dismantling of his life, and he had handed them the scalpel himself.

---

Back at the house, the storm had arrived on their doorstep. A van from a major news network was parked outside, and a determined female reporter with a microphone stood on the porch, cameraman in tow. It was Aisha who, returning from school, had naively pointed the reporter to the door.

Fatimah answered, her face a mask of protective fury. “You have no right to be here. Leave our family alone.”

“We just want a comment from Mrs. Isa,” the reporter pressed, shoving the microphone forward. “How is she holding up? Does she feel betrayed by her husband’s actions?”

Before Fatimah could retort, a calm voice came from behind her. “It is alright, Fatimah.”

Mariam stood there. She was dressed in a simple, elegant navy blue hijab and gown, her posture regal, her eyes clear. She had not been sleeping or eating properly, but in this moment, a formidable strength radiated from her. She stepped onto the porch, facing the camera not with the defiance of a wounded wife, but with the grace of a queen defending her realm.

“Mrs. Isa,” the reporter began, a note of triumph in her voice, “your husband has been absent for days following the revelation of the divorce filing. What is your response to those who say his political ambition has destroyed your marriage?”

Mariam looked directly into the camera lens, her gaze piercing through it to the millions of viewers on the other side.

“My husband, Barrister Abdulsalam Isa, is a man of principle and faith,” she began, her voice steady and resonant, devoid of bitterness. “He is dedicated to his family and to this nation. What you are witnessing is not the story of a marriage in crisis, but the desperate tactics of small men who fear the light he represents. They attack his family because they cannot defeat his ideas. They leak documents because they cannot win arguments.”

The reporter was taken aback. This was not the script. “But… the lawsuit… he filed for divorce.”

“I stand with my husband,” Mariam said, her tone leaving no room for doubt. “I stand against the lies and the character assassination. This is not about our personal lives. This is about a political fight, and in this fight, I am, and will always be, by his side. Let no one mistake my silence for weakness, or my husband’s absence for guilt. He is preparing to lead, while his opponents are busy weaving fables.”

Inside, Khalid watched from the hallway, a rare, slow smile spreading across his face. He walked to the door and stood just behind his mother, a silent sentinel of support.

The interview, clipped and powerful, aired within the hour. It went viral. The narrative, as Nasir had always schemed to control, began to turn—but not in the way he had planned. The public saw a strong, loyal wife, defending her man against shadowy enemies. The cold, legal fact of the lawsuit was suddenly overshadowed by the warm, human truth of Mariam’s loyalty. People started to comment online: “She’s right, this is a setup.” “They’re trying to break him through his family.” “What a strong woman. He’s a lucky man.”

When the reporter had left, Khalid looked at his mother. “You didn’t have to do that,” he said quietly.

Mariam turned to him, the public mask falling away to reveal a profound weariness. “I know.”

“You defended him. After what he said.”

“I defended the truth,” she corrected him softly. “And the truth is, he is being destroyed by treachery. My personal pain does not change that fact.”

Khalid nodded, a deep respect in his eyes. “You speak with respect,” he said. “Even when it’s hard. He could learn from you.”

That single sentence, from her formidable son, meant more to her than any public adulation.

---

In his hotel room, Abdulsalam saw the interview. He had been staring at the wall for an hour, the image of Nasir’s betrayal playing on a loop. When Mariam’s face appeared on the television screen, he flinched. He expected condemnation, a final, public severance.

Instead, he watched her perform an act of breathtaking political and personal mercy. She offered him a shield he did not deserve, defending the very man who had called her a liability. She spoke with a dignity that shamed him, a loyalty that shattered the remains of his ego.

Khalid’s words, reported by a journalist summarizing the scene, echoed in his soul: “She speaks with respect.”

The full weight of his folly crashed down upon him. He had been chasing a track—power, position, legacy—believing his family was an anchor holding him back. But now he saw the truth. They weren't the anchor; they were the compass. And without them, he was lost, speeding blindly toward a cliff, guided by a traitor.

A raw, guttal sound tore from his throat. Tears, the first in years, streamed down his face. He had to go home. He had to look at his wife. He had to beg for a forgiveness he could never merit.

He drove himself home, his hands shaking on the steering wheel. The house was quiet when he entered. Fatimah saw him and, after a moment’s hesitation, gave a slight, hesitant nod before turning away. Aisha ran and hugged his legs, sobbing, “Baba, you came back!” It was Khalid who met his gaze from the living room, his expression unreadable, but the judgment in his eyes had softened into something resembling pity.

He found Mariam in the study, exactly where he had left her. She was reading a book, her profile serene in the lamplight.

He stood at the doorway, a supplicant. “Mariam.”

She looked up. She didn’t smile. She didn’t frown. She simply waited.

“I saw… I saw your interview,” he stammered. “What you said… after what I…” He couldn’t finish. He stepped fully into the room, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I was wrong. About everything. Nasir… I saw him today. With Kabiru. You were right. He has been the one… he has been poisoning everything.”

He expected an “I told you so.” He expected cold fury. He deserved it.

Mariam simply closed her book. “I know.”

The simplicity of her response undid him completely. He fell to his knees before her chair, something he had never done in his life. He buried his face in her lap, his body wracked with sobs. “I am so sorry. I am a blind, foolish man. I called you a weight… but you are my foundation. I have broken it. I have broken us.”

He felt her hand hover over his head for a long moment before it finally came to rest, a gentle, weightless touch. It was not absolution, but it was a thread of connection.

He looked up, his face ravaged. “I will fix this. I will call my lawyer first thing in the morning. I will cancel the lawsuit. I will withdraw it. I will publicly denounce Nasir and Kabiru.”

For the first time, a flicker of emotion crossed Mariam’s face. It wasn’t joy or relief. It was caution. “Abdulsalam,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Think. If you do that now, after my defense, it will look confused. It will look like we are lying. It will undo the little good we have just managed to salvage.”

He stared at her, bewildered. Even in his moment of penitence, her mind was clearer, her strategy sharper. She was still protecting him, even from himself.

“Then what do I do?” he pleaded, a lost child.

“You come home,” she said. “You sleep in your own bed. You be a father to your children. You let the world see a united family. The rest… the lawsuit, the traitors… we will face them. Together.”

The word “together” was the most beautiful and painful sound he had ever heard. He had spent his life building tracks for his ambition to run on, believing “I should be on track” was the ultimate goal. Now, on his knees, he realized the only track that mattered was the one that led back here, to this woman, to this family. And he had nearly derailed it forever.