Local newspapers will carry the news with captions like this one: “Bride Makes a Dramatic U-turn on Wedding Day after Realizing Her Heart Lies Somewhere Else.” And by that morning, when people would gather at vendor stands to read and gossip about your thrilling story, you will be somewhere in Sabon Gari, sitting on a stool, face pillowed in palms, deep in thoughts. The shy boy you’ve eloped with will ask whether you would drink tea and bread. You will not hear him at first because you’re troubled, shocked even, at your daredevil move. Then you will look up at him and ask “what?” He will repeat his question slower and more affectionate this time as though it is a plea. You will shake your head. Your host, who must spent the night somewhere else because his one-room abode wasn’t big enough for all of you, will arrive. He will plead with you to eat something. He will say that your father, the wealthy politician, will have a rethink about forcing you to marry someone you didn’t love. This talk will soothe your frayed nerves in some way. And you will drink tea and bread, ignoring the tastelessness of both.
Your host will return later in the day with a copy of that morning’s The Punch Newspaper which he bought from a vendor at Ibo Road. You will see a photo of you on the front page. For a split second, a mischievous smile that you will come to loathe instantly will flash on your face. You will remember that as a child, you always wanted to appear on the covers of influential newspapers and magazines, but not this way.
On social media, men and women will call you names. They will say you are a disgrace to your parents, Islam, womanhood, and the whole of northern Nigeria. A few will come to your defense. Because of you, people will sit on their sofas and exchange blows on X (formerly called Twitter). One woman, engrossed in a heated argument, will forget her rice on fire and only realize when smoke begins pouring out from her kitchen like an angry fog.
That night you will be unable to sleep. The boy you’ve eloped with will be lying beside you snoring away without any care in the world. But you will not hold that against him. Even if you try, you will remember it was all your idea. You will remember how you woke him up that morning without prior notice and forced him to abandon everything to elope with you. You will remember how you both embraced and wept four nights before, because you thought that would be your final intimate meeting before your marriage. You will remember how that night, after your eyes were worn out from too much crying, you went to sleep with your earphones plugged in after watching the music video to Oxlade’s hit song “Away,” wherein the crooner eloped with his lover. Perhaps that was the time it hit you that you and the boy you love could change your fate. Thinking of such a possibility sent fire through your bones and the flame of renewed hope flickering in your eyes.
Morning will fall in place. You will visit an ATM stand to withdraw cash only to discover that your bank accounts have been frozen. You will know that there is no limit to your father’s cruelty. The bright colorful day will look monochrome in your eyes. So shadowy that one could weep for the world. Your world. The song from swaying Dogon Yaro trees will sound jarring, like a clang of cymbals and the birds chirping on nearby trees will prick your ears like a million needles. As with everything, nature whom you once adored, has lost its beauty. You will switch on your iPhone 14. A marathon of messages will flood in, each passing an invisible baton to the next on your notification tab, all jostling for your attention. Then the calls will follow. Your mother’s number will appear on the screen. You will spend time deliberating whether to answer or not until the ringing ends. She will call again. You will pick up this time. Her voice will feel like lime juice on an open wound. It will cut you deeply. Her voice will break as she calls your name and tries to speak all in one breath, choking on the current of her sobs. Someone else will take the phone from her and talk to you. This voice will be full of venom. This voice will creep underneath your skin. This voice will make you perspire and increase your heartbeat. The phone will beep as you end the call and smash it against a wall. You will put your hands over your face and weep. There will be no one to hug you and say everything will be alright because the only one that could probably do that would’ve gone to look for food for you both.
Soldiers will surround your haven later that day. The boy you love will be slapped, kicked, hit with the butts of guns, and dragged into a van like a criminal. You will cry in devastation, begging them to stop the maltreatment. Your pleas will fall on deaf ears. Two soldiers will escort you into a black SUV. You will weep uncontrollably. One of them will offer you a camouflage kerchief. His comrade will frown at him. You will decline the offer anyway.
Back home, you will kneel before your angry father and beg him to free the boy you love. Your father will walk away without a word because you disgust him.
The boy you love will be accused of kidnapping and arraigned before a judge. He will be sentenced to life imprisonment. Afflicted with grief, you will fall ill. You will knead your stomach, trying to purge yourself of the resentment you harbor for your family. You will try to end your life with rat poison. You will spend weeks in a hospital built only for the wealthy. You will survive. A year will pass, and everyone will seem to forget, except you. Your father will marry you off to another politician’s son. You will not run away this time. You will smile at everyone during the reception at Challawa Hall. Your smiles will keep stretching, painfully masking the chaos and pain that your heart has plummeted into.
