The day I become a wife, the air is heavy with the scent of incense and regret.
I stand outside the grand gates of Alhaji Usman's estate, my henna-stained fingers trembling. The veil can't hide the fear twisting my stomach. Baba's words echo in my head.
"Better a rich man's wife than a poor man's burden."
The gates creak open. I should run. Instead, I step inside.
The wives are waiting.
Sisi, the second wife, circles me like a hawk, silk wrapper brushing the marble floors. "So, you're the new bride," she says, voice sharp beneath its sweetness. "So young… What did he promise your father?"
I don't answer. What is there to say? My father sold me off to secure his future—one filled with wine and women.
Halimat, the third wife, snorts. "She looks fragile. Definitely won't last."
Uwar Gida, the mother of the house, stays quiet. When she touches my shoulder, her fingers are warm. "Come," she says. "Let's get you settled."
She leads me through endless hallways, past gold-framed portraits of Alhaji. His face stares back—stern, powerful, terrifying. My heart pounds until we reach my quarters.
The room is beautiful—too beautiful. Crystal chandeliers, plush curtains, a soft bed. But no matter how fine the furnishings, I know a prison when I see one.
I am sixteen. And I have just been sentenced.
The room smells of roses. Not the wild kind from behind my father's compound—this scent is too sharp, too perfect to be real.
Uwar Gida watches me. She doesn't hover. Women like her don't need to. They have already survived too much to waste time on hesitation.
Baba gave me a little lecture about Alhaji's wives days before the wedding. I guess he wanted me to be prepared for anything.
"Are you all right, dear?"
Her voice is soft. Almost gentle. But something else lingers beneath it—something old and heavy with experience.
I shake my head.
She sits beside me, close enough that her perfume clings to the air between us. "I was thirteen when he married me."
The words are quiet, sudden. It takes me a moment to process them.
I turn to her, searching her face, but her expression is smooth, plain.
"I was small," she murmurs. "Too small. I thought… maybe if I stayed quiet, he would leave me alone." Her lips curl into a hollow smile. "But men like him don't leave girls like us alone, do they?"
My stomach twists. Her voice is calm, but I hear the pain beneath it.
"Just follow what your mother taught you," she continues briskly. "That's the easiest way. Do what you're told, and he won't—" She stops, exhales. "It will be easier if you don't fight."
I almost laugh. The sound burns my throat like acid. Whatever fight I had left, I didn't bring it through these gates.
"I don't have a mother." My voice cracks.
She turns sharply. "What?"
"She died," I swallow hard. "When I was four. Baba said it happened during labor. The baby didn't make it either."
A shadow passes over her face. For a moment, she looks less like the woman who rules this household and more like someone who remembers pain.
"I heard Alhaji talking once," she murmurs. "About a girl he had… secured." The word hangs between us, cold and ugly. "I didn't ask questions. But now—" Her eyes flick over me. "It was you."
Have I been promised to him since then? A child playing in her father's yard, already sold behind closed doors?
Without warning, she pulls me into her arms. It isn't soft. It's desperate—like she sees herself in me, like she wants to shield me from something that has already happened. Something neither of us can undo.
"You'll survive," she whispers. "You don't have a choice."
Then she pulls away, smoothing her veil. "Sleep while you can," she says. "The first night is always the hardest."
The door clicks shut behind her.
I lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The room presses down on me, too big, too quiet. I can't escape the memories.
I was fourteen when Baba told me the truth.
It was on a Friday. I remember because Baba only drinks in the evenings—except on Fridays. That day, he was sober.
He sits on the front porch, hands trembling as he lights a cigarette. "Sit down, Hauwa," he says, voice rough.
I stay standing.
He doesn't look at me. Just rubs his hands together, like he's trying to scrub away something invisible. "That man—the one who brings you gifts—he's not your uncle."
My heart slams against my ribs.
"He's your husband."
I laugh. I think it's a joke. A stupid joke.
Until I see his face.
It isn't a joke.
The house I have grown up in—the one Baba always calls his, it isn't ours. It belongs to Alhaji. He owns everything. Even me.
I beg. God, how I beg. I cry until my throat burns. I tell Baba I want to be a doctor, that I don't want this life.
But every time, he gives the same answer.
"If Alhaji wants you to be a doctor, you'll be a doctor."
As if my dreams are his to give.
The last time I begged, he doesn't yell. He just sighs, like I am a burden he is tired of carrying. "You're better off a rich man's wife than a poor man's burden."
Those words broke something in me. Something I'll never get back.
I close my eyes, but the tears won't stop. I cry until my body aches. Until I feel empty.
At some point, sleep pulls me under. But it isn't the peaceful kind.
I don't know how long I sleep before the knock comes.
Loud. Sharp.
It shakes the door like a warning.
My eyes fly open, my heart slamming against my ribs.
He is here.