Love And Revenge✔️

Two

Aunty and I had been talking for hours, catching up on years we had lost to distance and busy lives. She laughed at the same stories I remembered from childhood, scolded me for some habits I hadn't quite outgrown, and reminded me of the little moments that made us close. By the time she finally excused herself to sleep, I stayed behind, leaning on the arm of the sofa, thinking about the next recipe I wanted to feature on my blog for the upcoming week.

After a few minutes, I called Afifa.

"How are you?" I asked, trying to keep my tone casual.

"I'm in Kaduna. I can't miss the wedding," she replied.

"I didn't expect that," I said, surprise coloring my voice.

"You don't sound happy about it. You sent me the invitation after all."

"Yeah, I know... but you said you were busy."

"Not for you. Never."

"Okay."

"I heard you'll only have the yinin biki and dinner. Why?"

"Kabir doesn't want much, and honestly, I agree with him."

"Sounds good."

"It's my wedding anyway, so I make the decisions," she said lightly.

"Okay then. See you tomorrow," I said, ending the call.

I placed the phone down, a small sigh escaping me. Afifa didn't really want me at her wedding, and to be honest, I wasn't planning on going. But Mama had insisted—she always did when it came to maintaining social bonds. "It's good to keep friends," she said. "You never know when you might need them."

What she didn't understand was that Afifa had changed. She wasn't the girl I grew up with. Afifa now seemed nervous, almost uncomfortable around me, and many of my friends had noted it over the years. She seemed to shrink in my presence, her confidence buried under layers of insecurity, often forcing me to compensate or smooth over her awkwardness. But since I had promised Mama I'd attend, I resolved to put my discomfort aside and see her.

I entered the guest room, the soft hum of the air conditioner filling the space as I settled in for a brief rest before the yinin biki.

⸻

The yinin biki was already in full swing when I arrived. I wore a simple atampa with a matching veil and flat shoes, carrying a small pouch for essentials, knowing we'd be dancing and moving around. The hall was alive with chatter, laughter, and music. Every step I took seemed to draw attention, though I couldn't understand why—it wasn't as if I had overdone my attire. Perhaps the stares were curiosity, or perhaps old rumors never fully fade.

I walked in and was greeted by familiar faces. "Maryam!" I exclaimed, wrapping her in a hug. She laughed warmly, as though no years had passed.

"And look at you!" she said, smiling. "It's been too long."

One by one, Munira, Hafsah, and Nafisa joined, embracing me in turn. Their presence was comforting, but also a reminder of how life had moved differently for each of us.

"Last time I saw you, you were leading that community program," I reminded Maryam.

"Yeah," she replied, a small smirk on her lips. "One you refused to participate in."

Nafisa chuckled. "And now she doesn't know us. That's life, isn't it?"

We laughed together before settling into the chairs arranged around the hall. I asked after their families, catching up on children, careers, and milestones.

Maryam was engaged to Abdulhamid, a diplomat, while she herself worked as a doctor in a private hospital in Kaduna. Nafisa had married Farouk, an engineer, and devoted herself to family life. Munira was dating Mansour, a master's student, while she worked at a law firm. Hafsah had endured tragedy, losing her husband three months after the birth of their second child, Aisha. Her resilience was remarkable; she worked as an architect and raised her daughters with strength.

I, on the other hand, was still searching for what I wanted in life. Though I had financial independence and a following that spanned social media platforms, I wasn't married, nor had I found personal fulfillment in a way that truly mattered. Observing my friends, I couldn't help but notice a twinge of envy in their eyes, subtle but unmistakable, as though they assumed I had it all. But what they didn't see was the restlessness, the dissatisfaction that came with living life under expectations that were never truly my own.

By 5:30 p.m., the crowd had thinned, and I decided it was time to leave. I wanted to stop by Madina's sister's house to drop off a package for her children before heading back. I said my goodbyes to Maryam, Mama, and Afifa, receiving smiles that masked lingering tension. Aunty had lent me her car since I had arrived by train, leaving my own parked at Ya Mutassim's estate.

As I stepped outside, a tall figure approached. His height immediately caught my attention, followed by the confident stride and poised stance, culminating in a smile that was both disarming and magnetic.

"Hey," he said, his voice smooth and easy.

I kept walking. "What do you want?" I asked, irritation creeping in. "I'm in a hurry."

"Okay, you're not going to answer me?" he muttered to himself, clearly amused.

I ignored him, moving toward the car.

"I couldn't stop staring," he confessed, stepping in front of me. "So I decided to talk to you."

"Sorry, I'm not interested," I said, voice cold.

He laughed softly. "I wouldn't be able to sleep if I didn't get your contact."

"And why would I care?" I asked, my patience thinning.

"I'm Fuad Ibrahim Maitama. And you are?"

"Rumaisa," I replied tersely, brushing past him.

"Only if you agree, we can meet up at dinner tomorrow," he said, dimples deepening as he smiled.

I hesitated. "Fine. Whatever."

Little did I know, that brief dinner would change everything. Fuad was engaging, attentive, and surprisingly understanding. I found myself laughing more than I had in months, opening up to him in ways I hadn't with anyone else. Over the next weeks, what was supposed to be a brief visit turned into extended stays, days filled with conversation, shared meals, and the quiet joy of companionship.

We fell into a rhythm that was comforting, grounding. He understood me in ways even my closest friends hadn't. I trusted him, relied on him, and eventually, I loved him. Our relationship felt inevitable, a collision of timing and compatibility.

But just as quickly, the illusion shattered.

A private moment, shared in trust, became public humiliation. Pictures of her—half-naked, exposed—was leaked online. Rumaisa Ali Bature, daughter of one of Nigeria's richest men, was the subject of ridicule, condemnation, and judgment. Headlines screamed betrayal, shame, and scandal:

"Daughter of Businessman Ali Bature Caught in Nude Pictures Leak"

Comments flooded social media, vicious and cruel:

"Finally, the truth about her comes out."
"I always knew she was a disgrace."
"If I were her father, I would disown her."
"God forbid a family produce someone like this."

I felt the weight of every eye, every judgment, every finger pointing. There was no hiding, no escape. Baba's anger was immediate, a mixture of disappointment and protective fury. He told me to leave the country until the scandal subsided, until the world had forgotten.

I packed what I could and left for Debrecen, Hungary. There, far from prying eyes, I could start again. A new city, a new life, a new identity. And yet, I wondered if I could ever return, if I could ever face the world—or Fuad—again. The betrayal and humiliation were too raw, too consuming.

I wasn't sure if I would ever face anyone again. Not now. Not ever.

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