When The Light Breaks

The call to prayer echoed softly through the early morning air in Kano, but Zainab didn’t move. She sat by the window of the small room she shared with her younger sister, staring at the dry compound outside. Her hands were still, wrapped in her wrapper like she was holding something fragile, but it wasn’t fear. It was the weight of knowing what today might bring. She had overheard it last night. Baba’s voice—firm, final. “She’s of age. The man is ready. We don’t delay these things.” And Mama’s silence… heavy and agreeing. Zainab’s breath had caught in her chest. Her palms had gone cold. She had been preparing to write her UTME. She had dreams—not loud ones, but firm ones. To study nursing. To leave the village. To help people. But now, all of it was collapsing into a marriage proposal she never asked for. Her heart raced again as her sister stirred beside her. Little Rahma didn’t know what was coming. She was still innocent—still believed that dreams made it past the front gate. Zainab blinked hard. The scar on her back itched—an old punishment from years ago when she had once said “no” too loudly. It wasn’t visible, but it never let her forget: girls didn’t say no in this family. But this time, she wouldn’t whisper her resistance. She would leave. --- Zainab moved quietly, so as not to wake Rahma. Her fingers trembled slightly as she opened the small metal box under the bed. Inside: her national ID slip, a faded photograph of her and Mama from years ago, and a few folded naira notes—savings from selling chin chin in school, coins she'd hidden from Baba's watchful eyes. She didn’t know exactly where she’d go, but she knew she couldn't stay. The morning moved fast. By 6:30 a.m., the compound was alive with noise. Neighbors sweeping. Mama boiling water. Baba’s slippers dragging across the corridor. Zainab greeted everyone normally, her face calm, her heart loud. “Zainabu,” Baba called from the front of the house. She turned slowly. “Yes, Baba?” He looked at her without warmth. “Today, you’ll wear your best clothes. After Asr, the man will come.” She nodded once. “Yes, Baba.” And that was it. No questions. No explanation. No care. Inside, she counted her breaths like she was counting time. When everyone sat for breakfast, she told Mama she had to go to the tailor’s place to collect her cloth. Mama didn’t ask questions. She simply nodded and passed her a 200-naira note. That was her opening. She walked. Then walked faster. Then ran. She didn’t turn back. *** By dusk, Zainab was on a night bus heading to Lagos. A woman beside her watched her closely. “You’re not from here,” the woman said. “No, ma,” Zainab replied, her voice small. “You run away?” Zainab hesitated… then nodded. The woman sighed. “The road is not easy o. But may God guide you.” Zainab looked out of the window. The trees blurred into shadows. Her chest was tight, but it wasn’t fear this time. It was freedom—raw and painful. Like a wound beginning to heal. She didn’t know what awaited her in Lagos. But she knew she would never be anyone’s possession again. --- The road stretched endlessly. The tires hummed against the uneven tar, and Zainab pressed her forehead to the cool windowpane. Each state they passed felt like peeling a layer off the life she was running from. Bauchi… Plateau… Kogi… And then—Lagos. Her eyes were sore, but she couldn’t sleep. Not when her mind kept rewinding. Baba’s face. Mama’s silence. The house. The room. The words: *“After Asr, the man will come.”* She whispered a silent prayer. “Ya Allah, just let me get there safe.” At the first stop in Berger, she clutched her bag tightly, unsure if it was the right place. The woman beside her noticed. “You’re stopping here?” Zainab hesitated. “I don’t know anyone in Lagos.” The woman sighed. “You’re a brave girl… but you need sense too. Come down. I’ll help you find where to rest for today.” Zainab followed her, uncertain but desperate. They walked into a rowdy park, thick with shouting conductors and heavy smoke from roadside suya. She had never seen so many people in one place. Her eyes darted everywhere—alert, afraid. The woman took her to a small kiosk behind a market stall. An older woman came out. “Na your sister be this?” the woman asked. “She’s running from home,” the first woman whispered. “Don’t ask too many questions. Just help her tonight.” The old woman eyed Zainab, then nodded. “Come inside. Small mattress dey.” That night, Zainab lay on the floor of a kiosk surrounded by crates and the smell of dried fish. It wasn’t comfort, but it was safety. For now. Her last thought before sleep claimed her: *I’ve made it out. But what now?* The next morning, Lagos didn’t give Zainab time to adjust. By 6 a.m., the kiosk was alive with market women dragging baskets, loud greetings, arguments, and the blaring of car horns. The old woman who had given her shelter—Mama Dupe—tapped her foot near Zainab’s head. “Wake up. This no be your village. People dey find money here.” Zainab sat up, dusting her scarf. Her stomach growled, but she had only 1,200 naira left. “You go stay here dey look?” Mama Dupe asked. “If you wan help me sell smoked fish, I go give you food.” Zainab nodded quickly. “Yes, ma. I’ll help.” Before long, she was seated beside a blue table with dried tilapia stacked high, calling out to passers-by in a voice that didn’t sound like hers. “Buy your correct fish here o! Very dry, no smell!” Some laughed at her accent. Some ignored her completely. But a few bought, and Mama Dupe gave her a small wrap of akara and pap. “You wan sleep here again?” she asked later. Zainab hesitated. “Only for tonight.” “Tomorrow, you go find your way.” That night, curled up again in the corner of the kiosk, Zainab replayed everything. She didn’t cry. The tears had dried long before the bus reached Lagos. But her chest felt hollow. She thought of Rahma. Her quiet giggle. Her tiny feet always sneaking into Zainab’s side of the mat at night. She missed her terribly. She thought of Mama. The woman who used to sing to her while braiding her hair had now become a stranger—quiet in the face of injustice. But worst of all… she thought of Baba. The final gate between who she was and who she was trying to become. *** By the third day, Zainab knew she couldn’t keep sleeping in a fish stall. “I need to find work,” she told Mama Dupe. “You no get people here?” “No ma. I came alone.” The old woman sucked her teeth. “Na wah o. Lagos no be for soft girls.” Zainab stood anyway. She had no plan, but staying still wasn’t safety—it was slow drowning. She wrapped her scarf tighter, stepped out into the streets of Lagos—and began walking. ---