ORNAMENTS ✅

Chapter One

Marari, Northern Nigeria.

Have you ever been in a situation you wish you just died instead because death seems to be the only thing that will provide your soul the peace and tranquility it yearns for?

A life where you are being insulted, taunted and rebuked every second. Where you're made to believe you are just a liability, an excuse for a daughter. Where you don't have a voice or a right to dream, this is the life I'm living with no ray of hope and i wish for death with every oxygen i inhale

I can't wait for the day, I'll leave this place and live my life with no-one reducing me to nothing even if leaving this place meant death, I'm ready since it seems like marriage is not even an option.

Years back I thought marriage was my only solution but after being rejected thrice I don't think any man would want to marry me ever.

~•~

The mud house consisted of three huts, encircled by a thatch-and-wood railing, leaving a small gap for the entrance.

In front of a pile of firewood, a woman in her early forties sat, struggling to start a fire. It kept smoking and flaring up unpredictably.

"Umaimah!" she called, for the second time.

"I'm coming, Hajja!" Umaimah replied hastily, tying her wrapper as she emerged from the hut. In her early twenties, Umaimah was a beautiful, caramel-skinned young woman, with big eyes, a long nose, and small curvy lips - the epitome of beauty.

"I've been calling you, and now you decide to show up?"

"I'm sorry, Hajja, I was dressing up."

"Ingrate! Always with excuses. Is there ever a day you'll be grateful for us bringing you here and providing you a roof over your head? If it weren't for us, you'd be out on the streets!" She hissed, glaring at Umaimah from head to toe. "Mara Asali! Fill up these pots with water."

Umaimah smiled bitterly. It was nothing new for Hajja to insult her over trivial matters, always reminding her that if not for them, she'd be on the streets. But she often thought life on the streets would have been far better. She was the oldest yet still did most of the chores, with no voice to complain - she was, after all, just someone seeking mercy in their house. The rest of the family at least had the privilege of calling it their father's house.

She grabbed a clay pot, known locally as a Tulu, and walked to the village stream. On her way, she met Yasira.

Ah, today must be her lucky day. Note the sarcasm.

Yasira, along with her friends, was also heading to the stream, pots balanced on their heads.

"Umaimah, wait up! We're going to the stream too," Yasira called, speeding up to catch up with her. Umaimah slowed her pace, knowing Yasira would probably have something cruel to say.

They walked in silence for a while until Yasira broke it.

"You know, my wedding is going to be fixed next week, and I don't even know how to feel about it. How did you feel when your wedding was fixed, Umaimah?" Yasira asked, with a knowing smile.

Ah, there it was. The topic of her wedding being called off. Did Yasira have to keep bringing it up?

"Why are you asking her? Her wedding got called off three times," one of Yasira's friends chimed in.

"That makes her the perfect person to know how it feels when a wedding is fixed, don't you think?" Yasira replied smugly.

"And when it gets called off, right?" another friend added, and they all burst into laughter.