Over and Over

Bonding

LAYLA'S POV

The wedding garden was a scene of timeless beauty, glowing under soft lights as laughter and music filled the air.

Maymun looked radiant, seated beside her husband, Ayman Abdulqadir.

He was every bit the dashing groom, a Shuwa Arab from Maiduguri, his regal demeanor enhanced by the way his eyes lingered on his bride.

The camera flashed repeatedly, capturing moments as Ayman playfully showered Maymun with naira notes, making her laugh.

They looked like a picture-perfect couple, and for a moment, the world seemed to revolve around their joy.

As the evening deepened, a small walima began in the garden.

I was on my way to enjoy the lively gathering when Dada stopped me in my tracks.

"Layla, I can't find my phone. Go and search for it," she instructed, her tone leaving no room for excuses.

I sighed, scanning the area. The guests were all engrossed in conversation, and most had left their phones inside.

I was about to give up when I noticed a familiar figure seated in a corner, absorbed in his phone. My heart skipped.

Was that... Hakeem?

I approached cautiously, "Hakeem?" I called, standing beside him.

He looked up, his dark eyes meeting mine with a calm intensity that made my pulse quicken.

"Could you please lend me your phone?" I asked, trying to sound confident.

His sharp, questioning gaze made me shift uncomfortably.

"Why don't you use your own?" he asked, his voice carrying that distinctive accent I couldn't ignore.

"If I had one, I wouldn't be asking," I replied, my tone clipped.

For a moment, he studied me, his expression unreadable.

Then, with a sigh, he handed over his phone. "Make it quick," he said, glancing at his intricate wristwatch.

I dialed Dada's number, only to see it saved as Petite. Confused, I glanced at him, but he was no longer there.

After several calls, I finally found the phone and made my way back to him.

"Excuse me," I called out, stopping him mid-conversation.

He turned, dismissing the person he was speaking with. "What now?"

"Why is my mother's number saved as Petite?" I asked, holding out the phone.

He frowned slightly. "Your mother?"

"Yes. It's her number. You should change that name," I said firmly.

His expression shifted, almost amused. "I thought it was yours."

"And why would you save my number as Petite?" I demanded, irritated.

He smirked, his gaze sweeping over me briefly. "Perhaps you should look in a mirror if you need an explanation."

Annoyed, I tossed my hair dramatically in his face and walked away, muttering under my breath. I hated being reminded of my height.

The Next Day

By late afternoon, the bride was getting ready for her big night, and I decided to take a break from makeup to play the role of photographer.

"Layla," Ammi called, "start getting ready. It'll be dark soon."

Reluctantly, I went to my room, planning to unwind with a bubble bath before dressing up.

But my peaceful plans were shattered when I found my evening gown on the bed—with a jagged tear down its side.

Beside it lay a pair of scissors and a note:

"Next time you try talking to Hakeem, your punishment will be worse than this."

I stared at the message, my chest tightening with fury and disbelief. Who would go to such lengths?

Ammi and Dada rushed in when I called for them, their expressions shifting from concern to anger as I showed them the damage.

"Hakeem is picking up his clothes from the tailor," Ammi said after a moment. "Go with him and get your dress fixed while you're there."

Minutes later, I was standing in the driveway when Hakeem arrived in a sleek black car. He rolled down the window and gestured for me to get in.

The drive was quiet at first, the tension thick in the air. Summoning courage, I decided to break the silence.

"Why were you looking for Posh Road the other day?" I asked, hoping to ease the awkwardness.

"It's a long story," he replied, his focus on the road.

"Try me," I pressed.

After a pause, he said, "Some people scammed me out of 29 million naira. They claimed they were building an orphanage. I gave them the money in good faith, only to find out later they were fraudsters. I had to get every penny back."

"Twenty-nine million?" I repeated, stunned.

He shrugged. "It's not much."

"Not much?" I said, barely suppressing a laugh.

He glanced at me with a small smile. "I'm Hakeem Muhammad El-Baz, president of El-Baz Empire. Money comes and goes."

I stared at him, impressed despite myself. "I'm Layla Umar Sunusi," I said, matching his smile.

"Which class are you in now?" he asked, his tone teasing.

"I'm done with secondary school. And for your information, I'm seventeen," I said, trying to sound mature.

He smirked. "I'm twenty-three. Quite a gap, isn't it?"

"Not really," I shot back. "Sannu yaya Hakeem."

At the tailor's shop, my dress was quickly repaired. I changed into it and emerged, feeling elegant despite the earlier drama. Hakeem was waiting by the door, his gaze steady as I approached.

"Do I look beautiful?" I asked impulsively, adjusting the hem of my dress.

He sighed, his expression softening. "Layla, Allah commanded us to lower our gaze for a reason," he said quietly.

Embarrassment washed over me, and I regretted asking.

Back in the car, the silence returned, but it felt warmer this time.

When we arrived at the hall, I misstepped as I got out, nearly twisting my ankle. Hakeem was by my side in an instant, steadying me with his firm grip.

"Careful," he said, his voice low.

I nodded, grateful but flustered by the closeness.

Inside, the hall was breathtaking, its grand chandeliers casting a golden glow over the crowd. My hand was still in Hakeem's as we searched for our families.

"Layla," a familiar voice called from behind, cutting through the noise.

I turned, my heart skipping as I recognized who it was.

Guess who it is.