The Crown And Her Shadows

chapter 19

Losing a parent is one of the harshest blows life can deal—especially a mother. Who teaches you to cook, consoles you when you cry, advises you, and, in Iman’s case, tells you to be patient?

Today was supposed to be different. Today was her day—the day she was leaving her father’s house. She was getting married to Ayman.

“Imani! Hello, Imani!” Halima’s voice snapped her out of her trance.

“Yeah, I can hear you,” Iman said, forcing herself to focus.

“The makeup artist is here. Stop wasting her time; she has other appointments,” Halima said, walking out.

Iman sighed, leaving her bed and heading to her walk-in closet. Umar had sold their old house for a smaller one, and she still wasn’t talking to Bilkisu. What she had done… it hurt too much.

“Hello,” she said as she entered the closet.

“Hello, Iman, right? You’re even more beautiful in person,” the makeup artist said.

“Thanks,” Iman replied, pressing her phone against her chest as the artist started work.

After the makeup, she changed into her outfit: a white mermaid gown with a long, modest slit and a transparent veil for her head. Her hair was done into a sleek bun.

As she stepped out to greet the elders, she froze. Anisa was standing by the door, tears in her eyes.

“Iman… he’s dead. Ya Mutu Imani,” Anisa whispered.

“Who… who died?” Iman asked, confused and alarmed.

“Ya Mutu Iman.”

“What are you talking about?” she asked, walking into the living room.

Halima’s eyes were red. “Come, Iman, sit down. You know Allah is with the patient, and He doesn’t test you beyond what you can bear…”

“Wait… what is it?” Iman asked, panic creeping in.

“Allah yayi wa Ayman rasuwa,” Halima said, breaking into tears.

“You’re lying! You can’t play with death!” Iman shouted, her voice trembling.

“I’m not lying. He’s gone,” Halima sobbed.

“Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihirajiun…” Iman repeated over and over, until the world went black.

Earlier That Day

Ayman was adjusting his cufflinks when his phone rang.

“Hello, who is this?”

“Do not marry her. You and she will regret it.” The line went dead.

He tried not to worry, but a nagging unease followed him to the hotel lobby. Ibrahim noticed a man watching him as he walked to the car. The man shook his head and drove off.

Ayman ignored it, heading to the mosque for the dauren aure. As he stepped out of the car, the same man approached, greeted him… and then pain shot through his chest.

“Inna lillahi, Ayman!” Ibrahim yelled, panic in his voice. They rushed him into the car. That was the last moment Ayman saw the light.

Three Days Later

Iman woke to the concerned face of her grandmother staring down at her.

“Oh, you’re awake,” she hissed. “Poor boy… just came into your life and now he’s gone.”

Tears streamed down Iman’s face. “I didn’t know,” she whispered.

“Iman, kiyi hakuri. Sorry,” Halima said softly.

“How long have I been out?” Iman asked.

“Three days,” Halima replied.

“And Anisa?”

“She went back to Zaria for the Zaman Makoki,” Halima explained.

“Who will tell her?” Iman asked.

“Not now,” one of her aunts interrupted. “The man you were to marry… he died. There’s nothing else to discuss now.”

Her grandmother nodded. “Yes. But… we have to tell her eventually.”

Halima hesitated. “Iman, Ayman was shot before the dauren aure. No one knew until it was too late. But the wedding… the family name… it had to go on. We couldn’t leave you without a husband, so…”

“So who?” Iman whispered.

“Nassim,” Halima said. “He volunteered.”

“Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihirajiun…” Iman muttered again, disbelief and grief washing over her.

“He’s a good boy, his father was your father’s best friend, but they lost contact when he moved to Dubai,” one uncle added.

Iman swallowed hard. The irony of it all pressed on her chest like a weight she couldn’t lift.

Days later, she returned from Zaria, the house quieter now. Hajiya Indo had sent everyone else home, leaving just enough family to escort her to her new home.

“Iman, your husband is… so fine, dama ne,” one cousin whispered.

“He’s here already?” Iman said, shocked.

“Yes. Hurry up and wear this.” She was handed a bag and left alone with her racing thoughts.

Iman stepped into the living room, her heart hammering. She wore a striking red lace gown that fell gracefully to the floor, gold jewelry glinting softly. A symbol of celebration, yet today it felt like cruel irony.

Nassim sat rigid on the edge of a plush sofa, eyes fixed on the floor. When he looked up, his expression was cold, unwelcoming.

She stopped a few feet away, hands clasped tightly. Each second stretched unbearably under his scrutinizing gaze.

“You look the part,” Nassim said, his voice dripping contempt. “A perfect picture of everything I despise.”

“I didn’t dress for you,” she said quietly, her voice wavering. “This is what I was given.”

“Spare me your excuses,” Nassim snapped, standing abruptly. He paced a few steps, anger radiating from every movement. “You have no idea what this is doing to me. To us.”

“What do you want me to do?” she whispered.

“This marriage is a sham. I never wanted it. Get us a divorce. Quick, or you’ll regret ever stepping into my life.”

“And if I refuse?” she asked, holding his gaze.

His face darkened. He stepped closer. “Then you’ll see just how miserable I can make your life.”

The threat hung heavy. The dress, the jewelry, all the pomp of the day—it felt like a prison.

Without another word, he slammed the door and left, leaving Iman trembling in the silence.