echoes of defiance (Rewriting)

chapter 45

Our stay in Nigeria was nothing short of delightful. I reconnected with Falmata, and my friends from secondary school paid me a visit. We reminisced, laughed, i also took some pictures with Zain, which I posted on Instagram for the first time. Usually, I only posted glimpses of him-his hand or a candid shot when he wasn't looking. But this time, I shared a real picture of us. The flood of questions from friends and strangers alike overwhelmed me. After a month of basking in Nigeria's warmth, we left for Jordan, where we spent a week.

Just a day before we were due to leave, Zain received a call from his father. I overheard him, his voice firm, yet sorrowful, "I'm not coming, Dad. I hope he gets well soon." He hung up with a heavy sigh.

I couldn't ignore the pain in his eyes, and gently, I took his arm. "Hayati, please don't do this," I whispered, my voice filled with concern. "You should go see him. I don't want you to cut them off. He's not going to ask you to divorce me again."

Zain turned towards me, his gaze locking with mine, deep and unwavering. "Let's go together," he said, his eyes softening as he searched my face for a response. My heart quickened at the thought of Qatar, of facing his grandfather, Sheikh Nahyan. The tension gripped me, but I nodded, trusting him, "Okay."

Instead of heading to Seoul, we made our way to Qatar. The moment we arrived, I was struck by the magnificence of the place-an air of grandiosity that left me breathless. We were welcomed with open arms, a surprising warmth from a family that once held so much hostility. After exchanging pleasantries, we were escorted to our private chambers to rest before visiting the hospital.

The next day, we stood by Sheikh Nahyan's bedside. His once formidable presence was now overshadowed by illness, but there was something else in his eyes-regret. His voice was weak as he took our hands, placing them together. "I'm sorry," he began, his voice trembling with the weight of his guilt. "I was selfish. I couldn't bear the thought of being the reason we didn't have a great-grandchild. I only had your father, and he had you. Please, have many children. I'm sorry, Faride."

"Farhana," Zain corrected him softly, a gentle smile breaking the tension.

We all shared a moment of laughter, a rare, beautiful relief. That day, Zain's return was officially announced, and to my utter shock, so was our wedding ceremony-an extravagant, official Arab royal wedding, ten months after our quiet, personal union.

I had seen lavish Nigerian weddings before, but nothing prepared me for the sheer grandeur of an Arab royal celebration. Sheikh Nahyan sent envoys to Jordan to extend apologies and invitations, even asking for forgiveness. He also invited my family officially, along with the President of Nigeria.

The whole world suddenly knew about us. Zain, once the quiet, dangerous boy in my Nigerian neighborhood, was now recognized globally as the second heir to the throne of Qatar. My phone buzzed relentlessly with calls and messages, and I eventually had to turn it off to escape the frenzy. Even my friends Ozge and Ha Young flew in to witness the spectacle.

The ceremony itself was a dream, and Zain-my Zain-looked every bit the regal prince in his native Arab attire. I was dressed in an elegant black abaya, standing by his side. As we sat down for the family dinner, the chefs served us, Zain making sure I had the finest dishes. The moment they brought the chicken wraps, though, I felt an overwhelming nausea rise within me.

I excused myself hastily, rushing to the bathroom. Zain followed, concern etched deeply in his expression. I barely made it before I began to vomit. Zain, in a panic, called for a doctor. After running some tests, the result was undeniable-I was pregnant.

The news spread like wildfire, and another celebration broke out. My parents were elated, and Zain, well, he could hardly contain his joy. We stayed for another week before boarding a private jet to Seoul, with a doctor by our side for my care. I switched my university classes to online courses, while Zain continued taking care of me every step of the way.

Nine months later, I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy who was the spitting image of his father. We named him Muhammad. My mother stayed with us for two weeks, doting on her new grandson before she had to return home.

By then, Zain had completed his degree and had already started his master's program. We were both on track to finish at the same time, but the discussions of where to live afterward were still up in the air. Qatar seemed to be the likeliest option, given that Zain's father, now the ruler, refused to remarry. Zain had fully embraced his role as the Prince-his lineage tying him to four of the most powerful Arab kingdoms, his heritage undeniable.

But no matter his titles or his lineage, Zain was mine-completely, utterly mine. And for our little boy, for me, for us, he would defy the world if necessary. We loved each other deeply, fiercely, and with a passion that no power could extinguish.

This was our life, our story-a love that transcended borders, family, and tradition. A love that endured, a love that conquered.

The end.