Aonat’s dilemma

Under the quiet sky

Chapter Five –

Aonat’s POV

Morning broke with music.

From the courtyard came the lilting laughter of women, the clatter of pots from the kitchen, and the warm, smoky fragrance of turaren wuta curling into the sky like a prayer. Colors shimmered everywhere — coral, emerald, and gold wrappers fluttered in the soft breeze like petals scattered by angels.

Today was Yahyah’s wedding day.

And the entire house pulsed with celebration.

The scandal of the past days had been swallowed whole by wedding songs. Shame was brushed beneath powder and perfume, tucked away beneath the crisp folds of lace and baban riga. The family had silently agreed — nothing would stain this day.

Even Baba, who had barely spoken to me since the picture, had softened. His voice was calm as he coordinated envelopes and guests. Mama smiled again, though something tired hid in her eyes. Yahyah moved with the giddy nervousness of a groom who hadn’t slept.

And me?

I became invisible.

I drifted through the house like a shadow in silk — smiling when needed, serving where expected, adjusting gele for aunties, making sure the trays of sweets were ready. Their kindness returned, but it felt cautious, like hands touching something fragile.

Still… I told myself it was enough.

By mid‑morning, the courtyard burst with guests — cousins from Kaduna, uncles from Abuja, Baba’s friends from his university days. Laughter rang through the air, rising above the metallic rhythm of the drummers.

“Aonat! Bring the prayer mats for the fatiha!” Mama called.

I hurried—and stopped.

At the sitting‑room entrance stood Zaydan.

Calm. Immaculate. Dressed in pure white that caught the morning sun.

He stood with Baba and the malam, posture steady, presence commanding without effort. When his gaze lifted and met mine, something inside me jolted. His eyes held no anger, no softness—just steady, unreadable judgment.

I quickly looked away and continued on.

⸻

The fatiha began soon after.

The men gathered beneath a white canopy outside, while we women sat inside, listening for the malam’s voice over the hum of chatter.

Mama’s fingers ran over her prayer beads, her whispered ameen steady and emotional. I sat beside her, hands open, praying with a trembling heart.

When the fatiha ended, women erupted in loud dukkah, their ululations echoing across the courtyard. Drums thundered to life. Laughter spilled out like joy finally set free.

Soon, it was time for kai amarya—the bride’s conveyance.

⸻

By late afternoon, the convoy of cars glittered in the sun. Ribbons fluttered, engines hummed, and excitement rippled through the air.

Yahyah looked radiant in cream agbada, his smile bright.

“Mama,” he whispered, kissing her hand, “pray for me.”

She cupped his cheek. “May Allah fill your home with barakah.”

He turned to me.

“Aonat, take care of Mama.”

“Always,” I promised.

And the convoy roared to life.

I joined the women’s cars—filled with aunties, cousins, girls singing loudly with the beat of drums. The streets glowed with evening sun as children ran beside us, waving and laughing.

The bride’s home was a riot of color.

Lights twinkled across the walls, the smell of fried meat and roses mingling in the air. Drummers beat out rhythms that vibrated through my bones.

The bride sat veiled and radiant, her henna-darkened hands steady in her lap. The rituals began—laughter, teasing, playful tug-of-war between families.

Joy thrummed everywhere.

But my heart… wandered elsewhere.

Near the men’s section, I spotted Zaydan again. He stood slightly apart, speaking with Yahyah’s friends. There was something distant in his posture—like he belonged here, yet hovered just outside the celebration.

What did a man like him think of all this?

Of love?

Of family?

Of the fragility of reputation?

I couldn’t tell.

⸻

Night crept in slowly.

The bride was escorted to her car amid cheers, petals tossed into the air. Children danced, women ululated, men clapped. The convoy headed back toward our home, headlights cutting through the soft darkness.

By the time we returned, exhaustion coated everything. Mama rushed to oversee food, Baba entertained guests, and songs echoed faintly in the compound.

For the first time in days, no one looked at me with pity or judgment. I laughed. I clapped. I blended in.

It felt strange.

Like breathing after being underwater too long.

But deep inside, something stirred. A quiet ache. Unfinished business.

⸻

Later, when the house finally quieted, I slipped into the courtyard.

The sky stretched wide above me — a dark velvet scattered with stars. The last traces of turaren wuta lingered in the air, soft and comforting.

I sat on the low stone bench and let the silence settle around me. It was almost too peaceful. Almost too still.

My phone buzzed softly in my palm.

Wadhud.

His name glowed on the screen.

I hadn’t opened our chat in days. The last messages stared back:

“Aonat, please, I need to explain.”

“It wasn’t supposed to go this way.”

“I miss you.”

My throat tightened.

I remembered his laugh, his charm, the way he made the world feel lighter. I remembered thinking it was love.

But under tonight’s quiet sky, I saw the truth.

What we had was built on hidden corners and rushed promises—things too fragile to survive sunlight.

I typed slowly.

“We need to end this. Whatever it is.”

My finger hovered before I pressed send.

The message turned blue.

Silence.

I exhaled deeply, placing my phone beside me. For the first time in weeks, something inside me loosened. Not healed—not yet—but lighter.

I looked up at the endless, star‑dusted sky and whispered the only prayer my heart could form:

“Ya Allah… grant me peace.”

And beneath that quiet sky, I felt the first spark of it.