...

Khadijah.

Week One.

My wedding date was set just a day after I was informed of the identity of my future husband. Apparently, my family was prepared to wed me off in only four weeks. In four weeks—which equates to twenty-eight days, and twenty-eight days translates to six hundred and seventy-two hours, I would be taken to my marital home.

Swoon? Oh, no—I didn't swoon. I simply died.

Mama and Ya Aisha were seated in Mama's living room, their eyes fixed on me as I took the seat furthest away from both of them, desperately trying to maintain a semblance of sanity.

My unshakeable motto from this day forward is..

Oh, I heard about the date today. Yesterday, I successfully avoided everyone, and thankfully, none of them brought up my ninety-ninth insane decision—the party. I felt immensely grateful for that, and mind you, I got rid of the clothes I wore to the party, fearing the bad omen it carried.

Anyway, my motto is this: you cannot afford to show weakness in any form. I even adapted a resting bitch face that has now also become known as my poker face.

Khadijah you're getting married. Me? Okay.

Khadijah, you're getting married in four weeks. Me? Okay.

Khadijah, you're not getting married in four weeks, it was all just a nightmare. Me? Okay.

See, now we're just waiting for the latter scenario to materialize, because I'm allowing myself to be optimistic—the first and second have happened, so I still cling to hope that the third will too.

I greeted both women, turning the screen of my phone upside down as I braced myself for whatever news they had for me today. I was prepared for anything and everything. Having accepted my fate, I had spent last night devising a comprehensive plan for my first year as Tahir's wife. First of all, he has to agree to a platonic marriage. Secondly, he lost his chance at maintaining his oh-so-coveted bachelorhood the moment he turned down Ya Mukhtar's offer to marry me. Now, I was offering him a chance to reclaim that life—the bachelorhood—by proposing an agreement to go our separate ways perhaps a year after the marriage. Ya Mukhtar had insisted that contractual marriages were haram, so we wouldn't label it as such. Instead, we would agree to keep the terms unnamed.

I know he will agree with me because have you seen my puppy dog eyes? They always get me away with everything, except for a forced arranged marriage.

One thing I was super sure of was the fact that I was absolutely done crying.

Ya Aisha cleared her throat, poised to speak first. All hail the bearer of either good or bad news. But remember my motto? I was born ready for this moment. "Khadijah, we were discussing your wedding. Since Baba has stated there will be no event except for the Nikkah itself and the ceremonial sitting, we wondered if you have any specific preferences regarding what to wear, so we could begin making arrangements." My sister's tone was practical, yet it held a warmth I appreciated but couldn't show.

Biding my time, I let the girls in my head make a decision. The girl on the left insisted I describe an atrocious outfit in rebellion, while the girl on the right suggested the fitted Iro Buba style that I had been coveting for months, to give a detailed description of the very color and exact style I had envisioned myself wearing on my wedding, which was supposed to take place in the distant future, but as fate took the reins to the decision; the wedding was just around the corner.

A tug-of-war ensued, and ultimately, the girl on the right took the crown—thanks to the look Mama shot my way. It completely disrupted my connection with the girl on the left, the bad influence who had undoubtedly persuaded me to go out with Zayd. The mongrels!

I parted my lips and described in full detail how I wanted my wedding attire to look. We couldn't have a sad bride wearing ugly outfits, could we? I would much rather wear a diamond-studded outfit and wear a frown than look bad and feel bad. Eek!

Ya Aisha couldn't help but ask, "When did you come up with this?"

"It's been on my mind for quite some time now," I shrugged, maintaining an air of composure.

"Seems you have no issue with getting married," Mama interjected, raising an eyebrow at me. I refused to react, choosing instead to fidget with my fingers.

I wasn't nervous. I was merely pretending to be.

As far as I was concerned, this marriage would be nothing more than a vacation. In several months' time, I imagined myself returning home, with my luggage in one hand and a huge smile plastered across my face. I could hold onto a bouquet of flowers that represent success on the other hand.

Perfect.

The huge smile reflected on my face, and I hurriedly wiped it off the moment I noticed. After all; poise, composure and nonchalance were the traits I had erected for cover.

"Khadijah, you're a little bit on the slim side. Do you think it would fit you?" Ya Aisha asked, her gaze scrutinizing me much like how she would examine Husna, my adorable five-year-old darling.

I shook my head twice. "It looks great on slim and thick women. Besides, I'm not as skinny as you think, Ya Aisha," I remarked, earning another sharp side-eye look from Mama.

Forcing myself to look away from Mama's judgmental eyes, I added, "Ya Aisha, I also want a fitted dress."

I got rewarded with another glare, but then, it is my wedding, after all.

Once I finished putting in words in vivid detail the dress I envisioned, Ya Aisha suggested we pay a visit to the dressmaker Amna had recommended the day I confided in her about the chaos my life had turned into. Amna eagerly counted herself in and promised to be there with us when I let her know.

"Are we going now or later?" Ya Aisha asked, raising a brow at me.

I shrugged casually, silently conveying my acceptance of whatever decision they made. Half an hour later, I found myself draping an elegant R&S veil over my A-shaped Ankara dress and getting into Ya Aisha's car with a sigh.

As the car roared to life, she turned her head, gazing at me with a suspicious look. "Khadijah, I'm assuming you're angry with all of us for not taking action against your marriage," she said, getting a hold of the steering wheel before reaching for my hand and squeezing it softly.

I shook my head.

A scoff slipped past her lips, knowing it was a total lie. "Khadijah Abubakar Bello, I know you. I've known you all your life, and trust me, you're acting just like Husna does when her Daddy refuses to cater to her wishes—like a complete spoiled brat."

My hackles rose defensively, and everything I had been stowing away in the name of maintaining calm, composure, poise, and nonchalance suddenly broke down. It erupted.

"Ya Aisha, this is a nightmare for me! I'm not ready for it; I'm far too young! I don't even know what's expected of me or what I should do. I have no idea what Tahir thinks about any of this, but I do know for sure that I wasn't his choice. Baba doesn't respond to my greetings, and Ya Mukhtar is upset with me, he didn't bother to come wish me goodnight last night. You and Mama are acting as if you haven't heard about the party I attended with Zayd. I've never felt more confused and overwhelmed in my entire life!" I exclaimed, heaving from the intensity of my outburst.

She remained silent for a few seconds. "Breathe, Khadijah, just breathe," she whispered, squeezing my fingers gently, offering me comfort.

Ya Aisha parked her car on the side of the road, unbuckled her seatbelt, and drew me into her arms. Khadijah the rebel wasn't wearing any seatbelt, so it was easy for her to pull me into her warm embrace. She hugged me fiercely, letting me sob quietly while she rubbed my back, whispering words of affection and consolation in my ear.

After a little while, I finally recovered, and she gently cupped the sides of my cheeks, ensuring I met her gaze. I nodded in agreement, managing a soft smile. Faintly, but it was still a smile.

"We're your family. We'll do nothing to deliberately hurt you. Khadijah, if Tahir ever hurts even a speck on your finger, trust me, you won't need to say a word before any of us come dealing with him; he knows that. Nobody will get to have you without cherishing you. We'll always be there for you, praying for you, loving you, and hoping you have the best, nothing but the best in life. You're strong, and I have complete faith that you'll handle everything perfectly. You'll be okay, I promise you this. In Shaa Allah. Baba loves you, Mama does too, and the three of us adore you. Mukhtar will come around soon; he can't live without you, and you know that. Just give him the time he needs to ease off. It's simply his protectiveness showing, nothing more."

"Thank you, Ya Aisha," I whispered after finally finding my voice. Her soothing words tugged at something deep in my chest, making the weight I felt lift just a little bit.

"We love you, Khadijah. I love you so much," she affirmed, her eyes sparkling with sincerity.

I nodded in response, returning the sentiments with a soft sigh.

We settled into a comfortable silence during the ride, and in little time, we arrived at our destination. We found Amna waiting in the lobby, and after giving Ya Aisha a warm hug, she pulled me to the side and enveloped me in a bone-crushing embrace. "You're going to love this midnight blue dress I found for you! I know black isn't your thing, so I had to pick something lighter," she gushed excitedly.

"Loco!" I whispered in her face.

"Trust me, you must wear that dress, idiota," she retaliated, poking the side of my head with her index finger.

After Ya Aisha finished speaking with the receptionist, we secured an appointment for a consultation and were ushered into the designer's chic office. Pleasantries and introductions flowed easily, and as Amna and I settled down on the plush pink chaise lounge on one side of the room, Ya Aisha took her place on the single chair by the table.

As the bride, the opportunity to speak first was mine, an honor that had me gloating. My companions chimed in with their inputs as we described four perfect outfits for the designer, detailing the fabrics to be used for each outfit. The designer sketched as we spoke, and with just a few minor corrections, the ideas forming in my head came to life on her sketchpad. She listened intently to my descriptions as if I was discussing a groundbreaking solution to eliminate poverty from the world.

If only!

A smile involuntarily pulled at my cheeks as I was getting measured. It felt a lot different from all the other times I went to a fashion designer's place because this was a special occasion.

We left the designer's office with a beautiful abaya each as a gift from Ya Aisha, who decided to treat us to lunch before we returned home. We ate in a comfortable silence, my friend enjoying her coffee in the middle of the day. Our next stop was my regular dressmaker's place, and to my surprise, Ya Aisha presented the man with a large box that I had no prior knowledge of, she had it taken out of her car's boot. Inside were beautiful lace and Ankara fabrics that she declared were mine to wear for both the wedding and after.

Say what?

I nearly fainted from excitement and disbelief. But I didn't because it ended up being a lot of fun.

Before heading home, Ya Aisha and I dropped Amna off at Mommy's house.

On our way home, Ya Aisha began sharing marital advice with me, some had me turning my head to the window in playful disgust, making faces—grimacing, pretending to retch, and snickering at the absurdity of it all. She caught me, of course.

...

One day later, the preparations began for real. Ya Aisha set off shopping with Mama, and they spent the entire day wandering through bustling markets and upscale boutiques, gathering the essential items they needed for the wedding. They had a delightful time picking out everything from outfits to accessories, and they decided they weren't done after getting home.

I wondered what they didn't get.

Meanwhile, Ya Mukhtar connected me with an interior designer who asked for my preferences regarding the sleeping chambers first before we began talking about the living quarters as a whole.

All of this happened within just one day, and we weren't even close to being finished. Not at all.

There was still so much to cover concerning the interior, so I decided to let my brother handle it after providing them with a vivid description of exactly what appealed to me in terms of decor and arrangement.

Baba, on the other hand, was still not speaking to me. He only acknowledged my greetings, nothing beyond that initial politeness. I found some comfort in that, at least he wasn't outright ignoring me, but still, it made me feel disappointed in myself. I could hardly imagine how he felt.

When Ya Aisha and Mama finally returned home, I gaped in astonishment at the sheer bulk of items they had gotten for themselves. It was as though they were attempting to steal the title of the bride right out from under me!

Ya Aisha communicated with Amna about my preferred makeup artist. Their unwavering determination to make sure I looked my best evident in every choice they made, from the smallest details to the major decisions. It filled me with a sense of gratitude to have their support. It was a good feeling.

Before making a final decision on a makeup artist, I sat for trials with two different artists while Ya Aisha and Amna acted as my judges. They critically evaluated each look before concluding on one artist for the Nikkah and the other for the budan kai or whatever ceremonial festivities Tahir's family had planned to welcome me into their home.

Yay!

Yes, that was sarcasm.

...

Four days into our preparations, Ya Aisha who had practically moved into our home joined me in the living room. I was completely absorbed in a TV show when I heard her salaam echo through the space. I kept my phone aside after responding to Amna's last message, telling me she was done packing up the things she needed. Ya Mukhtar was picking her up for me, an arrangement that Mommy had agreed to. She was going to be spending most of her days here before the wedding.

It was only after Ya Aisha fully stepped inside that I noticed another woman trailing closely behind her. I greeted both of them with a polite smile, my curiosity piqued by the stranger's presence.

"Khadi, where is Mama?" Ya Aisha asked, her tone bright and cheerful.

"She's in her room," I answered, my curiosity piqued as I discreetly eyed the woman, wondering who she was.

"Alright," she replied, and then turned to face the woman. "Maman Safiyya, you can sit here," she added, gesturing towards one of the sofas in the room.

The woman obliged and Ya Aisha disappeared into the direction of Mama's rooms.

Later on, I learned that the woman, Maman Safiyya, was going to be in charge of prepping me for marriage. She had traveled all the way from Maiduguri,  Mama's eldest sister sent her to us. I appreciated the kindness and did a mini dance in my head. That excitement was short-lived, however, it died when Ya Aisha explained the details of Maman Safiyya's role and the processes involved. My heart lurched, it somersaulted before falling into a pitch black ditch, come again?

It broke my heart to realize that they were truly wasting their funds on a marriage that I had every intention of keeping as platonic as possible. But I chose to keep that fact to myself, allowing them to carry on with their elaborate plans unhindered. Maybe that's payback.

Inserts evil laugh.

Immediately after that, I found myself signed up for a twenty-three-day session at the luxurious spa owned by the same woman who had sent Maman Safiyya to our home. The entire purpose was to ensure that I would be pampered until I sparkled brighter than the most coveted precious gemstones.

The implications sent a chill running down my spine.

Mama had two half-sisters from Maiduguri, and the oldest among them—Hajiya Fanna—was the proud owner of the spa. Her sister, Hajiya Rahama, was a free-spirited woman with the enthusiasm that could fit into five different people.

"Tahir ango, kaji dadi," I whispered beneath my breath, realizing all of these preparations was being done for myself and him. To them, it's for him, especially.

A sinister smile curved my lips at the thought of how this was all mine and, only mine. Mine alone.

...

Week Three.

The days passed in a blur, I went through fittings, overwhelming sessions at the spa and intense preparations with Mama Safiyya, activities and stuff that I was too young for. Ya Aisha surprised me with a box of lingerie that I dropped on the floor as though it had scalded my fingers the moment I saw the first thing that was neatly folded at the top. They expect me to wear that?

Oh hells.

Amna erupted into a fit of laughter at my reaction, rearranging the dresses while playfully calling me all sorts of silly names. Honestly, I didn't care one bit; the embarrassment was overshadowed by the ridiculousness of the situation. Amna was busy getting her own outfits ready as well.

She and Ya Aisha helped pack everything I needed along with the stuff I planned to give out. My lefe, a traditional bridal gift, was brought just the day before and Amna had taken it upon herself to explain in detail how stunning and exquisite everything was. She repeated "extremely beautiful," over a thousand times while gushing over it. The welcoming committee for Tahir's representatives comprised Amna's mother, Mama's sisters, Baba Kashim's wife, and a circle of our family relatives, the occasion took place at Baba Kashim's house. Baba had no other sibling apart from Baba Kashim.

Ya Aisha and Amna were my caretakers. They took care of my every need. I didn't even have to voice anything out, they just knew the right thing to do at the right time!

Regarding the whole interior preparation, Ya Mukhtar was forced into interacting with me frequently, and I was genuinely glad for that. It rekindled the relationship between my brother and I.

After everything had been settled with the interior arrangements, Ya Mukhtar joined Amna and I in Ya Aisha's house. We were watching TV, my head casually leaning on his arm, and my fingers wrapped around his waist while Amna sat across from us, cracking us up with her witty and animated stories.

Stories that had my friend and I cackling like the retarded hyenas in Lion King.

My phone, sitting pretty on the center table, suddenly blared out Fifth Harmony's song, voicemail. That was my flavor of the week—my ringtone of choice. Amna and I frequently switched ringtones. This particular song had been released last year in 2016 and had become my go-to for when I was in one of those moods where I simply didn't feel like picking up calls.

Ya Mukhtar handed the phone over to me, his brows knitting together as his eyes ran over the contact information. When I accepted the phone, I noticed it was an unsaved number, and, like my brother, I furrowed my brows in confusion.

"Pick up your call, it's Tahir," he muttered, his voice giving nothing away.

My eyes met Amna's, and both of our eyes widened to the size of saucers in shock.

Tahir and I had never ever spoken from the time our wedding date was set. I hadn't heard from him directly, but I was aware that he was in Kaduna. The thought of speaking to him now sent a wave of panic crashing over me. It had me hyperventilating.

A hushed silence descended upon the room when the phone abruptly stopped ringing.

Nervously, I cleared my throat, finding it hard to believe that he was actually calling me.

What for? To tell me what?

Amna and Ya Mukhtar insisted that I call him back, and with my lower lip firmly clamped between my teeth—a nervous habit—I dialed his number. The call didn't go through, and he opted to call back instead.

I shot my brother and best friend a look before finally freeing Ya Mukhtar from my hold and fleeing from the room. Once I was safely in Ya Aisha's room, I locked the door behind me and summoned that nonchalance from its deep slumber. I needed it for this.

"Hello, Assalamu alaikum," I began, trying to act blissfully unaware of who was on the other end of the line.

"Wa alaikumus salaam, Khadijah. How are you?" he asked, his voice low and deep, sending a shiver down my spine.

"I'm good, Alhamdulillah. Who is this?" I inquired, shaking my legs vigorously to get rid of the nerves eating me up from the inside out.

He released an audible breath before responding, "It's Tahir."

Oh, I know. And how could he forget to add the crucial detail—your husband in ten days? My stomach dipped low at how it sounded.

"Oh, Tahir," I cleared my throat once more, feigning surprise as best as I could. "How have you been?"

We were both tip-toeing around the subject, fully aware of it yet unwilling to address it directly. However, since he called, I reasoned he should be the one to break the ice.

"My sisters—Sa'eedah, Muna, and Haifa—want to meet up with you. They asked if you would be okay with them coming over; are you?"

I fought the urge to scoff in disbelief. Okay, let's get this straight, this man here is going to be my husband in less than two weeks—a platonic one—but not once have we had a conversation about the wedding or our expectations. The both of us were skirting around the obvious, not regarding it at all.

"It'll be nice to have them here. Yes, they can come over anytime they want, any day. It's fine," I rambled, struggling for composure and unable to vocalize anything more substantial.

A few moments of silence stretched between us before he finally spoke again. "Alright then, thank you."

"Don't mention it," I replied quickly.

Neither of us spoke again. I could hear the faint sound of his breathing on the line, but that was it—nothing more, nothing less.

"Are you still there?" he asked, and I instinctively nodded before recalling he obviously couldn't see me.

Dumbo.

"I am," I confirmed, twirling a strand of my hair nervously between my fingers.

"When I return to Kaduna for the weekend, I'll come over; we need to talk." His words sent my stomach not just dipping, but plummeting, skidding off the ground to who knew where.

"Alright," I squeaked, inwardly cursing my vocal cords for failing me at such a critical moment.

"Talk to you later."

"Bye," I breathed into the phone, quickly turning it around and clapping my hands over my lips.

What the hell just happened?

...

AN

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