echoes of defiance (Rewriting)

chapter 38

I walked into Amma's room after what felt like the hundredth plea for Zain not to act like he was the first man ever to be pregnant. As we entered, I was relieved to find Amma discharged and beaming with happiness, ready to head back to the hotel.

“Jikin yayi sauki ne naganki?” she asked, her voice warm and filled with concern.

“Eh Amma, dasauki yanaku jikin,” I replied, trying to sound as upbeat as she was. “I'm better,” I added, smiling to reassure her.

I knew Amma wouldn’t ask me about the pregnancy unless I brought it up first, so I chose to keep my lips sealed for now. We packed her belongings and made our way to the hotel, where Zain, Usman, Amma, and I chatted about the days ahead. Zain mentioned he would come back at midnight to take us to Incheon Airport, where they would catch their flight back to Nigeria the following day.

As we conversed, Amma kept advising me to eat healthily, avoid stress, exercise, and a plethora of other well-meaning tips. I appreciated her advice, but inside, I felt a twinge of longing. I wished I were in Nigeria, experiencing this pregnancy in the comfort of my home. Although Zain was the most caring man ever, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he didn’t fully grasp the intricacies of this new chapter in our lives. Yet, we were trying.

A week passed since Amma left, and I still hadn’t spoken to anyone about the pregnancy—not even Saddie. I was sure they had picked up on it, but I wasn’t ready to address it yet.

One evening, Zain and I were sitting together in a nearby park when his phone buzzed with an incoming call from his father. After hanging up, he turned to me with an intensity in his eyes. “He’s at our building. Let’s go.”

My heart raced as we made our way back. As soon as we arrived, I felt a wave of anxiety wash over me. Grandfather Nahyan was there, flanked by three other men dressed in traditional Arab attire, along with two middle-aged women and a woman in her mid-twenties.

I greeted them, and to my surprise, they responded warmly, not at all in the hostile manner I had expected. We entered our home, and I served them drinks, placing an order from Demir’s while the bodyguards waited outside, a looming presence that heightened the tension in the air.

After they had settled in a bit, Zain's father cleared his throat and spoke. “Yours and Mahra’s wedding was fixed. We have been waiting to hear from you, but you weren’t allowing room for the conversation, so we got you wed low-key last week. Now we’ve brought her here.”

My heart pounded in my chest. I instinctively searched for Zain’s eyes in the room, hoping for some sign that this was all a misunderstanding. Finally, I looked at the woman I assumed to be Mahra. Tears began to roll down my cheeks as I felt a wave of despair wash over me. Zain’s expression darkened, his eyes burning with anger as he began ranting in Arabic. Though I couldn't grasp all the words, the tone was clear: he was upset, and so was I.

Desperate for clarity, I stood up and walked to him, taking his hand and leading him into our bedroom. “Hayati’m, please just accept it,” I pleaded, feeling the weight of his family’s expectations pressing down on us. “You know Dad did this because he has no other choice. I’ve read about marriage in Arab royalty; we are a taboo. Please let it be. I don’t want anything to hurt you or separate you from your lineage—not even me.”

As I finished, I felt hot tears streaming down my cheeks, and I looked into his eyes, which mirrored my sorrow. “Accept her,” I urged, my heart aching at the thought of losing him.

His gaze softened, but the anger remained. “I cannot live with a woman that is not you. I cannot touch a woman that is not you. I cannot stand any woman that is not you. So how do I live a married life with her? I won’t be just. And Allah said to add only if we can be just. Are you telling me to disobey my Lord to please them?” His voice was thick with anguish, and I could feel his pain radiating off him like a palpable force.