Loving Ehma

CHAPTER THREE: THE WEIGHT OF I DO

The music started.

My cue.

The double doors of the church groaned open, slow and theatrical, like the beginning of a play I never auditioned for. Everyone rose. Heads turned. Smiles spread like wildfire.

But I couldn’t move.

Not at first.

My legs felt like they were made of stone, rooted to the ground as the weight of my dress and my decision pressed down on me.

Somewhere in the crowd, Mama sniffled. Happy tears, I assumed.

And in front of me, just beyond the blur of flowers and camera flashes, Bayo stood at the altar, grinning. Beaming.

He looked like a man in love.

And I… I felt like a woman walking into a storm she couldn’t name.

The pastor’s voice rang clear and firm.

“Do you, Kamsiyochukwu Okafor, take Adebayo Olawale to be your lawfully wedded husband… to have and to hold… for better, for worse…”

I blinked.

People stared. Cameras flashed. Mama dabbed her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

“…for richer, for poorer…”

I glanced at Bayo. He was smiling, his eyes locked on mine, as if we were the only two people in the room.

“…in sickness and in health…”

I swallowed hard. My lips moved, repeating each line like a robot reading a script.

But inside me, something curled up and wept.

“To love and to cherish, till death do us part.”

Till death.

The words sat heavy on my tongue.

Because part of me already felt like it had died.

“Yes, I do.”

The congregation’s applause broke out like a wave crashing through the hall.

I smiled or at least I think I did. My cheeks moved. My lips curved. But it didn’t feel like mine.

“By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

Bayo didn’t hesitate. He pulled me close, his hands gentle but sure, and kissed me a long, soft kiss that earned whistles and claps from the crowd.

My veil brushed against my face like a curtain, and for a brief second, I imagined it was hiding me from the world.

Afterward, there were hugs, tears, and congratulations. People fussed over my dress, took selfies, whispered “perfect couple” like it was a prayer.

Mama beamed like she’d just handed God her greatest testimony.

But beneath the silk and lace, my heart sat in silence.

The reception was everything Mama had dreamed of, and everything I had endured for months to plan.

Rows of white chairs under canopies. Rose-gold and champagne décor. A live band singing a mashup of Tope Alabi and Davido. Aunties in matching aso-ebi with gele so high they looked like mini towers.

It was a Nigerian wedding, through and through.

I sat beside Bayo at the high table, nodding politely, smiling for photos, raising my wine glass every time someone toasted to “love that lasts forever.”

He held my hand under the table. Tight. Too tight.

Somewhere between the third course and the couple’s dance, I escaped to the restroom.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

Flawless makeup. Perfect brows. Lipstick that hadn’t smudged despite the kiss.

I looked like a bride. But not like me.

There was a knock. One of my friends peeked in, grinning.

“They’re about to call you two up for the dance o! Hope you’re not crying already, romantic girl!”

I laughed. Too quickly.

“No oh! I just needed a minute. I’m coming.”

She smiled and left. I locked the door behind her.

That’s when I allowed the tear to fall.

Just one.

I wiped it off before it could smear anything.

And then I walked back out like a girl who had just married the love of her life.

The hall had emptied.

The last of the music had faded, the makeup had begun to crack, and the high-pitched congratulations had finally died down.

Now it was just us.

Bayo and I.

And silence.

I sat at the edge of the hotel bed, still wrapped in layers of white satin and lace that suddenly felt too heavy for my skin. My feet ached. My head ached more. But most of all, my heart felt… numb.

The door clicked shut behind him as he walked in. His voice was low, careful.

“You were beautiful today.”

I forced a smile.

“Thanks.”

He crossed the room and sat beside me. His hand reached for mine, warm and steady. I didn’t pull away, not because I wanted to stay, but because I didn’t have the strength to move.

There’s something about wedding nights they don’t tell you:

Sometimes, it’s not fireworks.

Sometimes, it’s fear.

He leaned in, brushing his lips against my shoulder.

“I can’t believe you’re finally mine.”

Mine.

That word rang in my ears like a warning bell.

I looked at him, this man I had promised forever to, and I couldn’t tell if what I felt was anxiety, or guilt, or both. Not because he was cruel, not yet. Not because he wasn’t good. But because I wasn’t sure if I had truly wanted this.

Because all I could think about was the way my heart had once fluttered for someone else… and how I’d silenced it.

“You’re quiet,” he said.

“I’m just tired.”

“Of today?” he asked, turning to face me fully. “Or of me?”

I froze.

He laughed it off quickly, as if it was a joke, but the weight in his eyes said otherwise.

I slipped off the veil, stood up, and walked to the mirror. My reflection stared back at me a bride with red, swollen eyes, smeared lipstick, and a perfect dress hiding an imperfect truth.

The night was supposed to feel magical. Instead, it felt like a mistake I couldn’t undo.

I said nothing more. Just unzipped the dress and stepped out of it, piece by piece like I was shedding a version of myself I no longer recognized.

And behind me, I could feel his gaze not with love, but with possession.

The wedding was over.

The marriage had begun.

But I… I wasn’t sure I was still in it.

I turned the lights off.

The hum of the air conditioner filled the room, the only sound between us.

Bayo walked into the bathroom to wash away the day’s stress.

I lay on the bed, wrapped in the hotel’s soft white robe, my hair pinned messily to the side.

Minutes later, Bayo came out shirtless, wiping his face with a towel. His eyes found mine, gentle but searching.

Neither of us spoke.

He moved toward me, slow and cautious, as if unsure where to place his hands. I didn’t move away. I didn’t move closer either.

When he leaned down to kiss me, I let him.

His lips were warm. His hands slid around my waist with a tenderness that made me ache in places I didn’t expect, not from passion, but from guilt.

Because in that moment, I realized how far I was from truly being present.

His touch grew more confident. The robe slipped from my shoulder. Skin met skin. He murmured soft words, his breath warm against my ear, asking if I was okay.

I nodded.

And so we made love. slow, tender, and quiet. No gasping, no fireworks. Just two people trying to hold on to something… real. Or convincing themselves that it was.

When it was over, he kissed my forehead and pulled me into his chest.

“I love you,” he whispered.

I didn’t reply.

Not because I didn’t care for him, but because those three words felt too heavy for a heart that wasn’t entirely mine anymore.

The morning sun filtered through the curtains, casting gold patterns on the hotel floor.

Bayo was still asleep beside me, one arm flung over my waist like a prize he had finally claimed.

I stared at the ceiling.

I had done it, said the vows, smiled for the cameras, worn the dress, laid beside the man everyone said I was lucky to have.

So why did it feel like mourning?

I slipped out of bed gently and tiptoed into the bathroom.

Cold water. My reflection.

Not a bride.

A girl pretending.

The door opened behind me.

Bayo stepped in, barefoot, a towel over his shoulder, his cologne warm in the air. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead.

“Good morning, Mrs. Olawale.”

I smiled faintly.

“Thank you,” he added, brushing my cheek with the back of his hand. “Thank you for making me a complete man.”

I studied his face. No pretence, just deep gratitude.

“I’ve planned something for us,” he said, stepping into the shower. “Nothing loud. Just dinner. Private. Special.”

A curious smile tugged at my lips. Special wasn’t a word Bayo used carelessly.

That evening, I dressed in the wine-colored gown he had secretly packed.

He took me to a rooftop restaurant in Ikoyi, candles on every table, soft jazz, the city lights twinkling below.

Halfway through dessert, he pulled out a tiny velvet box.

Inside was a silver car key.

“I wanted you to enter this marriage with ease,” he said. “You’ve always had to hustle for everything. But not anymore. You deserve softness.”

A brand-new Range Rover Velar. Midnight black. Chrome accents that caught the light.

I froze, my hands over my chest.

“Bayo…” I whispered.

He placed the keys in my palm.

“For my wife. So you’ll never have to think twice about getting where you need to go.”

The cool metal felt heavy, like a promise, like possession.

And maybe… maybe in that moment, I believed I could be happy.

He was doing everything right.

And slowly, dangerously, I was starting to forget that I hadn’t chosen him out of love.

I had chosen him out of safety.