It was my wedding day.
I was tired of the appearances I had been forced to put up and my jaw ached from the pressure of the fake smile that I plastered boldly. I begged to be free from going through with this façade. I struggled to maintain a calm disposition because I was close to visibly hyperventilating.
From the corner of my eyes, I saw Aunt Fai’dah glare at me as I used my pristine handkerchief to gently pat the cold sweat starting to glisten on my garishly made-up face. My sudden movement was affecting the henna she was applying to decorate my hands and feet, but I ignored her. I simply did not care as I concentrated on swallowing the bile that had risen again.
Today was supposed to be the best day of my life. I never imagined it to be this way. Maybe I could still do something about it. Perhaps the silver hairpin that held my tresses under my veil could puncture a vein. Maybe, I could hang myself with the heavy curtain at the entrance of our home. That would certainly brighten up the day. Death held a much stronger appeal.
Wait a minute! Maybe my father could have mercy on me and change his mind. I willed myself to stop panicking as he entered the room. I rushed to him, flung myself to my knees, and begged him to reconsider.
Baba, ban shirya yin aure ba (Father, I am not ready to get married), I pleaded.
His next words chilled me to my bones: “I warned you to stop reading those big books. They corrupt your mind and make you forget your duties as a woman. He has promised to take care of you, and I know that he will. Besides, he is a big man and has paid a lot to have you”. He jabbered on, and soon enough, my numbed mind started to blank out his words. An arranged marriage was my punishment. Maybe I deserved it. I had not listened to my father.
Halima was my best friend, and we giggled whenever we envisaged the way our special day would be. Although she was four years older, I laughed at her bold plans of marrying a rich Alhaji who would whisk her away from the impoverished life she was living. I must confess that I was not surprised. Most of my friends felt this way. However, I never did. Of course, I wanted to get married like most girls, but I preferred it after my schooling.
I loved to read but hid this from everybody. In my village, girls were not supposed to go to college or display intelligence. In my family, my father did not believe in sending female children to school. I was able to go to school because of a scholarship by a Councillor during his visit to my village three years ago. It was offered to ten girls, and I was a lucky recipient, gaining admission to the best school in the village.
I remember the day my father found out like it was yesterday. Reading the books I snuck out of the school library made me understand there was life outside marriage. He had caught me a couple of times and warned me to stop reading, but I lied and said it was for an assignment.
What my father did not know was that I had been teaching my seven sisters how to read and write. I was the first daughter to see the four walls of a classroom. I felt so proud of their progress, and I pressured them to keep dreaming big. It was on one of these occasions my father burst into our hut. He had come back from herding the cattle earlier than I thought and was angrier than I had ever seen him.
He swore that he was going to teach me a lesson while tearing up the pages of the books that lay open on the floor. He did not say a word of just how he was going to do that, but I knew something was fishy when he started taking me to all social events. I developed a heart-sinking suspicion he was parading me in front of the men.
Today, my mother did not say a word in my defense when Mallam Kamir came to the house bearing lots of gifts. I could see the brown staining on the surface of his decayed teeth. He was old, and his kaftan, made damp with sweat, looked dirty. I was sure it reeked. But he was the richest man in the village, and that was all that mattered to my father.
Halima and I stared with horror, hidden behind the curtain. I sobbed uncontrollably, but Halima assured me that he may have come to arrange things for his young son. Soon enough, I was dragged out by Aunt Fai’dah and forced into a gown. Just like that, I was getting married.
I shook myself out of my morose state as my father handed me the family bracelet. The wedding march had begun. Blinding tears streamed down my face as I walked on. And then I froze in shock as I came to a startling realization. At fourteen, I was not marrying his son. I was about to seal my fate with Mallam Kamir himself, a man who was fifty-nine years older than me.
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Love,
Diane
