It’s been two months since we moved back here, and Zain has been the most amazing husband anyone could dream of. He helps me with my studies, treats me like a queen, and is always there when I need him. We've grown so close that being with him feels as natural as breathing—I can’t go an hour without missing him. We’ve made the decision to focus on our studies for now, so we went to the hospital and opted for contraceptives. Even Amma came for her check-up and visited us a number of times before heading back. It was comforting to have her around, adding a sense of family and stability.
One Tuesday morning, I had evening lectures while Zain left for his early morning classes. I decided to stay back and enjoy the quiet, browsing through the Internet, and going through some notes. That was when the doorbell rang.
Curious, I checked the screen. My heart skipped a beat—I recognized the face. Quickly, I called Zain to let him know before rushing to throw on my hijab. My pulse quickened as I opened the door. Standing there was an older man, someone with an air of authority. His face was stern, and behind him stood four towering bodyguards, their presence instantly filling the room with tension. I felt uneasy. He didn’t greet me back, and instead, his bodyguards pushed their way inside, uninvited. The energy in the room shifted—cold, sharp, and heavy.
He walked in without a word and sat down on the couch, his piercing gaze falling on me. In Arabic, he asked, “Where is Nahyan?”
My heart raced, and in my broken Arabic, my voice trembling, I replied, “He… he went to the university.”
He stared at me, unimpressed. “And you… who are you?”
My palms felt sweaty, my heart pounding in my chest. “I… I’m Farhana,” I managed to stammer, the nerves making my voice falter.
His eyes narrowed. “Why are you here?”
“I… I’m Zain’s wife,” I said, my voice barely holding up. The words hung heavy in the air, as if admitting to something forbidden.
He glared at me, his voice colder now. “On whose approval did you marry him?”
Tears welled up in my eyes, and I could feel them spill over. The intimidation, the hostility—it was suffocating. It felt as though Zain had been gone forever, and I desperately wished for him to come back. Just when I thought I couldn't take it any longer, I heard his voice. Strong, firm, and unwavering.
“On Allah’s approval,” Zain said as he walked in, his eyes dark with barely concealed fury. His gaze shifted to the bodyguards before locking onto the older man. His grandfather. His voice, now laced with anger, roared through the room. “Get the hell out of my house.”
The bodyguards flinched but didn't move. Zain’s grandfather remained seated, indifferent to the outburst. Zain’s hands clenched into fists, his voice growing louder, the frustration and rage boiling over. “Why would you bring four grown men into my house where my wife is?!”
His grandfather’s cold smile sent a chill down my spine. He leaned forward slightly, his voice sharp and disdainful. “You know we will never accept a different race into the royal family. It’s the same reason we didn’t accept your mother. You went and married a Nigerian?” He spat the word as though it was venomous. “If we didn’t accept a Moroccan, what makes you think we’ll accept *her*?”
His finger pointed accusingly at me, and I felt my heart sink. I silently recited *La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah*, desperately trying to calm myself, but my fear and anxiety were overwhelming.
“Divorce her and send her back to where she came from,” his grandfather continued, his voice dripping with condescension. “Your father’s exile has been lifted. Transfer and come back to Qatar.”
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. My heart stopped, time seemed to freeze, and I couldn’t breathe. Was he really asking Zain to divorce me? To leave me? My world spun out of control, and the fear of losing Zain consumed me entirely.
But Zain stood tall, unshaken. His voice, filled with defiance, rang clear. “I don’t need your approval. I love her, and I’m not transferring. And I will *never* be the son of a country that rejected my mother and caused her tragic death.”
His words hung in the air, echoing with finality and power. Zain’s eyes were ablaze, his fists still clenched, but there was no fear—only resolve.
His grandfather smirked, unfazed. “You have a month to obey my words.” With that, he stood, his bodyguards following him as he walked to the door.
The moment the door shut behind them, Zain’s anger seemed to fade, replaced by worry and regret. He turned toward me, his arms opening wide. Without thinking, I ran into his embrace, sobbing uncontrollably. His strong arms wrapped around me, holding me close as he whispered comforting words, rubbing my back in slow circles.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured softly, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “I’ll handle this, I promise. I won’t let anyone take you from me.”
But all I could do was cry, my heart heavy with the knowledge of just how powerful the Qataris were. The fear gnawed at me, and though Zain’s words were meant to reassure me, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something bigger was looming over us. Something I wasn’t sure we could fight.
YOU ARE READING
echoes of defiance (Rewriting)
RomanceIn their neighborhood, rumors about Zain and his father linger like shadows. Though they've lived here for over two decades, Zain remains an enigma-a silent storm with a tragic aura shaped by whispers of his mother's mysterious death. His cold, guar...
