ECHOES OF DEFIANCE

chapter 24

The Moroccan royal family was undoubtedly the most hospitable group of people I had ever encountered. No matter how hard I tried to put it into words, the way they cherished Zain was beyond description—one could only imagine. His grandparents welcomed me with warm, genuine smiles, their eyes filled with a depth of kindness that made me feel instantly at home. We greeted his uncles and aunts with warmth, their embrace as sincere as the vibrant atmosphere that enveloped the palace.

Later, Zain led me to his part of the royal estate. Every son or daughter of the Emir had their own designated section of the house, and Zain occupied his mother's quarters. The space was a blend of royal grandeur and personal nostalgia, a reflection of his heritage. As I stepped into the room, I couldn’t help but feel the weight of history surrounding us. The high, intricately carved ceilings, the elegant Moroccan arches, and the soft lighting whispered tales of the past.

We showered, washing away the fatigue from our journey, and I didn’t bother unpacking since we would only be here for two days. Zain, on the other hand, had a full wardrobe of clothes, most of them traditional Moroccan attire.

As I finished combing my hair, I glanced over at him. He was standing by the closet, selecting an outfit, when he finally chose a beige-colored traditional Moroccan set. The way it draped over his tall frame was almost princely, highlighting the natural elegance he carried so effortlessly.

I watched him in awe, and without realizing it, I whispered, “Tabarakallahu ahsanul khaleeqeen,” a prayer that slipped from my lips without thought. Blessed be Allah, the Best of Creators.

Zain turned, catching my words. His eyes twinkled with amusement as he raised an eyebrow. "What was that, habibti?" he asked, a playful smile tugging at his lips as he slowly approached me.

I blushed, my heart racing at being caught. "I—I didn’t mean to say it out loud," I stammered, but I couldn’t hide my smile. "It just... slipped. You look—" I paused, searching for the right words. "You look like the royalty you truly are."

Zain chuckled softly, the sound warm and rich. He stepped behind me and gently placed his hands on my shoulders, meeting my gaze in the mirror. "And you," he whispered, his voice a low murmur that sent shivers down my spine, "are my queen."

The tenderness in his voice, the way he held me with such care, made my heart swell with emotion. I leaned into his touch, feeling the warmth of his presence wrap around me like a protective shield.

"You always know exactly what to say," I whispered, closing my eyes and letting the moment settle deep into my heart. His hands gently caressed my arms, tracing invisible patterns along my skin, and I felt myself melt into the moment.

I pulled out an abaya from my wardrobe, but Zain shook his head with a soft disapproval. “We’re going to a dinner party hosted by my grandparents,” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “I want you to change into a native Nigerian outfit. I want everyone to know you have culture and tradition, and they should learn to respect that.”

His words held a weight I couldn’t ignore, so I obliged. I chose an emerald green *lafayya*, adorned with intricate gold details that shimmered with every movement. To complete the look, I wore a set of gold bracelets that clinked softly as I moved, a long dangling necklace, heavy gold earrings that brushed my shoulders, and a delicate gold headpiece that crowned my hair. As I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I looked every inch the beautiful Yerwa bride I truly was.

Zain’s eyes widened when he saw me, admiration pouring from him like a wave. “Masha Allah, my *hana issa beauty*,” he murmured, his voice filled with awe. “Kinyi kyau sosai, wifey. I wish we could just stay in. I could watch your beauty until morning,” he said, extending his hand toward me, his gaze never leaving mine.

Blushing under his intense gaze, I took his hand, feeling a surge of warmth spread through me. “Thank you, *hayati’m*,” I replied softly, my heart fluttering at his words.

“Let’s go. Everyone’s waiting for us,” Zain said with a grin, his fingers gently squeezing mine as we headed out toward the dinner.

The event was held in a grand hall, beautifully decorated with tables and chairs draped in gold and white. The glow of soft lights filled the room, creating an atmosphere that felt intimate despite its grandeur. Zain kept a firm but gentle grip on my hand as we entered, and I couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride and love for him as we stepped into the gathering.

Traditional Moroccan and Arabic-themed music floated through the air, and we were escorted to a table reserved for us. The moment we sat down, guests began approaching, offering greetings in both Arabic and English. Though I understood Arabic, I wasn’t fluent, so I replied in English whenever the conversations stretched beyond a few sentences. Zain, ever attentive, would sometimes step in to assist, guiding the conversations gracefully.

As the evening went on, the guests remained respectful in their attire—keeping their outfits modest in deference to tradition, as no one was supposed to outshine the bride. Not that I particularly cared; I had my own Yerwa beauty, and that was enough.

Just then, a new family entered, and all eyes in the room shifted toward them. They were undeniably dressed to impress, their outfits sparkling under the chandelier’s glow. Among them was a young woman, no older than her twenties, who wore an elegant white Moroccan *caftan*, her beauty undeniable as she walked toward us with a confident smile.

I noticed a quick change in Zain’s expression—his previously relaxed demeanor stiffened, and a deep frown settled on his face. My heart skipped a beat as I watched the girl approach, her smile directed entirely at him.

She greeted Zain in a Berber language, her voice sweet and melodic, but Zain’s response was immediate, sharp, and cutting. “Speak in a language my wife can understand, or don’t speak at all,” he said, his voice cold as steel, his eyes never even meeting hers.

The woman’s smile faltered, and she turned to me, forcing her lips back into a smile. “Hi, Faride, is it? Congratulations,” she said, though her voice was far less sweet now.

“Thank you,” I replied, smiling as warmly as I could manage, even though my heart raced with a sudden surge of unease.

“I’m Asma,” she introduced herself, her eyes flickering to Zain for a brief second. “Zain’s betrothed. I’ve heard so much about you—it’s nice to finally meet you.”

The moment she said those words, I felt a sharp pang of jealousy course through me, but I forced myself to remain composed. I would not give her the satisfaction.

With a soft smile, I replied, “Is that so? Funny, he’s never mentioned you before.” My voice was calm, though my heart pounded in my chest. “You know, my husband doesn’t talk much. But when he does, it’s usually to me—or when it’s about me. But anyway, it’s nice to meet you too.”

Her smile vanished, her eyes narrowing in irritation before she quickly excused herself, walking back to the seat where her family had gathered. My pulse was racing, the jealousy gnawing at me, but I kept my expression neutral, refusing to let it show. Zain had been holding my hand tightly throughout the encounter, and I could feel his fingers tense in response to the tension in the air. But I refused to let anyone ruin the evening or provoke an argument between us in public. That was Asma’s goal, but I wouldn’t fall for it.

As the night continued, Zain tried to explain, his voice low and urgent, but I shook my head, my lips pressed into a determined smile. “Not here,” I whispered, firmly but gently. I would not allow this woman to rattle me, and I would never show anger toward my husband in public. It wasn’t worth it.

The dinner went on until about 8 PM, and by then, I was ready to leave. Zain had held my hand protectively the entire evening, and while his presence soothed me, I could feel the weight of unspoken words between us. As we walked toward the car, I could see the worry in his eyes, and I knew that the moment we were alone, we’d have to address the uncomfortable elephant in the room.

But for now, I smiled softly, knowing that no matter what, we were stronger than whatever ghosts from his past tried to tear us apart.