ORNAMENTS ✅

Chapter Fourty Eight

Dasuki State, Nigeria
2023

Nabeel parked in front of the apartment—the same apartment where he had once brought Umaimah after taking her away from the Yabo family. Stolen, as she often described it. With clenched fists, he led the way inside while she followed closely behind. The living room greeted them with an eerie silence, one that seemed to magnify the whirlwind of emotions between them.

"Why didn't you consent to the marriage?" Umaimah asked suddenly, breaking the silence. She already knew the answer but wanted to hear him say it. She longed for some clarity in the mess of their relationship. Deep down, she wanted him to say the words, "I love you, Umaimah." She wanted it badly enough that she feared how she'd react if he did.

His answer was short but profound. "Because the only wife I want to have, will have, and ever have is you."

The words hit her harder than she expected. Why do his words always have this effect on me? she wondered. I hate this slow burn; I want something intense, something immediate. Is there even a word for that—rapid burn?

"Why?" she pressed, her voice barely above a whisper.

This time, he turned to face her. His unwavering gaze met hers, and though his expression remained stoic, she could see the emotions swirling beneath the surface. To her, it was like he was trying to hide behind a transparent veil that wasn't fooling her in the slightest.

"So I can become your reward for suffering," he replied. His words brought back memories of a conversation they'd had when she was in the hospital. Back then, he'd told her there was no such thing as a reward for suffering, and she had teasingly suggested there might be. And now, here he was, calling himself her reward.

She laughed, her voice tinged with incredulity. "Typical Nabeel. Why can't I be your reward for suffering instead?"

He shook his head. "No can do. I'm the reward." His dark eyes bore into hers as he continued, "You, you're an ornament—something to adorn myself with, cherish, and flaunt."

His words sent a fluttering sensation to her stomach—those darn butterflies again, and during Ramadan, of all times. She managed to say, "You're really bad company during Ramadan. But I'm not breaking my fast." Her lighthearted response was an attempt to ease the tension in the room.

"I'm sorry about Aunty Nana," he said suddenly, his expression softening. "The woman just doesn't know how to control her mouth."

Umaimah shrugged. "Why are you apologizing? This is Aunty Nana we're talking about. If she doesn't do something dramatic, we'd all start wondering if she's sick." She chuckled, trying to deflect the conversation.

Not that Aunty Nana didn't get under her skin—she absolutely did. But Umaimah had faced far worse taunts in her life. Aunty Nana's words barely left a scratch.

"So," Umaimah began, her tone lighter now, "I heard you say you paid my bride price?"

"Yeah, I did," Nabeel replied with a sheepish smile. "I clearly remember you saying, 'You haven't paid my bride price, no confirmed wedding date, blah, blah, blah.' Well, by tomorrow, be ready for a date and invitation cards."

She raised an eyebrow. "Why are you acting like someone who wasn't coerced into arranged marriage, you're too excited for the sake of it."

Nabeel smiled enigmatically. "Who knows? Maybe I wasn't coerced."

The words hit Umaimah like a punch to the gut. Wait, what did he just say? Did he mean he'd agreed to the proposal willingly? She told herself not to get her hopes up, but his actions—and even his eyes—betrayed the truth. He loved her. She could feel it, even if he refused to say it aloud.

"Iftar Mubarak, Daddy," she teased when the adhan rang out, signaling the end of the fast. She knew he hated being called that, but she wasn't about to let him off the hook so easily.

"Why do you always walk away when something unpleasant happens or during a fight? Is that your defense mechanism?" She asked.

"Smally," she said, using his nickname for her, "I step out for fresh air. It helps me ease the tension before I face the situation. If that makes sense."

She shook her head skeptically but decided to let it go. Maybe it made sense; maybe it didn't.

They walked right in when Nini was setting the coolers and she beamed a gargantuan smile at the sight of them.

"If not Nabeel Shamaki and his wife." Umaimah chuckled, She knew exactly what Nini was playing at. She was teasing him for what he said to Aunty Nana earlier.

"Yes, Nini. My wife." Nini rolled her eyes, Nabeel trying to play the shameless son in law.

"Nini guess what?" Nabeel said after exchanging a hug with her and wishing her Iftar Mubarak.

She raised a brow indicating what as she kept setting the table, Umaimah couldn't just stand there. So, she walked over to the table and helped out.

"I peeled the yam, peeled garlics, sliced onions and bell peppers, grinded cinnamon to powder. She just fried it and made the sauce after i did the hard part for her, Husband Material."

Umaimah yawed her mouth open, apart from being shameless, he's now a liar?

"Nini, he's lieing. Someone that cannot even peel yam properly, You're just shameless aren't you. Why are you lying during Ramadan?"

"Who says I'm lieing, prove it's not true."

Umaimah kept quiet, She's sure Nini knows the said man is lieing already.

In the dimly lit prison cell, Asad—sat quietly, waiting for iftar. The day had been grueling, as always, but he was used to it by now.

The guard's voice broke through his thoughts. "Inmate 5432, you have a visitor."

Asad stood and approached the door, the cuffs on his wrists clinking as he moved. He wondered who it could be. Asma had visited just two days ago, and his aunt was unlikely to come at this hour.

When he reached the visitation area, his heart skipped a beat. It was Zizi, her growing belly a visible testament to their connection. He hadn't thought about her much since...well, since everything happened. Betrayal? He wasn't sure if that was the right word, but her testimony in court—and the video evidence she'd provided—had cut deep.

"Asad," she said softly, her voice hesitant.

He didn't respond, his emotions too tangled to form words.

"I brought food for iftar," she offered, holding out a container. "I know you're upset with me. You have every right to be. But I had my reasons."

He scoffed at her explanation but took the food silently.

"I found out the gender of our baby," she continued, her tone hopeful. "It's a girl."

For a moment, the anger in his chest softened. "When is your due date?" he asked quietly.

"Next month."

"I pray you have a safe delivery," he said, his voice tinged with sincerity.

They chorused, "Ameen," and a fragile peace settled between them.