Fifty Nine.

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You are not ready for this🤌🏿 this chapter needs more editing than others but laterrrrr. Your comments hanging low, I'm going MIA👨🏿‍🦯




ADAMAWA STATE, NIGERIA.

Fatima raise her head from his chest and eyes him in confusion. Is he really going to talk about his past now or is he merely joking and mocking her as always? But his face looks so stoic and serious which means he wants to talk about it. Why is he not concerned though? Why the nonchalance? She could imagine herself talking about her past, broken beyond repair with tears and mucus seasoning her whole face.

"Are you sure about this?" She asked with a note of uncertainty in her voice but that doesn't mean she is not more than curious to know what is going on. If possible, she would want to go through his head and just find out everything before he opens his mouth.

Ahmad shrugged his broad shoulders and brought her back to his arms, her head lying on his chest. "I'm damn serious. It's just a past, something that's happened years ago."

Fatima frowned, her past is not just a past. It is what molded her into the person she is, assist her in every decision she's made so far. Her past is what is currently leading her towards her future which means it is very important and a memory she never want to forget albeit the bitterness it entails. How could she dream about talking about her past? There is no way Ahmad is ready to console her broken self neither is she ready to look vulnerable in front of him. Talking about it with Adda mama is different but with Ahmad, more than different.

"Is it traumatic? Lonely? Dramatic? Hurtful? Depressing? Frustrating? Humiliating?" Her fingers continue to trace patterns on his shirt, not bringing forth anything about his past to her head because she cannot bring up anything. She's clueless since she's never thought he has any past worth talking about until now. She thought it was all about Adda mama but there is more.

Ahmad thought, recall her words to see which one will fit into his last. "Let's say it's more dramatic than hurtful but little bit of both."

"Hmm, I have no comment for that. Jump into it already, I'm intrigued." She relaxed, falling heavily on his chest not knowing what he is about to say will have her bouncing back on her feet in shock? Jealousy? Or wonder?

Ahmad bit his lip and decided to drop the bomb on her head. "I was married." And Fatima jumped into a sitting position, hitting his jaw in process of her fast movement. Ahmad grimaced and massaged his jaw, watching her with half closed eyes as she frowned at him.

"You were married?" At his nod, her frown deepened some more in concentration. "You've had something like this before with another woman?" A grimace worked its way to her face, her she looks genuinely confused and uncomfortable with the logic. He's really been married to another woman? At what age then? He looks ridiculously younger than his thirty year old self but how old was he when he got married?

Seeing as she is not taking the news well, Ahmad gathered her again in his arms and force her to lie down on his body, the wound stinging a bit but he wants her there in his arms when he talks about his past. Stubbornly, she started wiggling in his arms but he is stronger than her and kept her firm against him. Fatima wouldn't have it, she is jealous and it doesn't matter whether she is showing it or not, she can't stand the thought. Ahmad married to another woman? Oh god why?! After successfully tucking her in him, he surfed his fingers through her hair and like always, she became lenient.

"It wasn't the same. What I have now with you, it's something way deeper with more chemistry even though I'm not going to lie that what we had with her was also love. I loved her, we were in love with one another for most part of our lives together, two years." He kissed her forehead tenderly, his lips lingering for long to keep her calm. He's realized that a jealous Fatima is not good, she shouldn't be jealous when he is more than hundred percent sure she's got him, he is hers for as long as she wants him.

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