BETHROTHED (4)

MENA

Her bubbly laughter drifted through the corridor, catching the attention of a few students walking past. 

Mena clutched her study bag as she laughed at her father’s remarks, her eyes shining with affection.

“Papa, you shouldn’t have done that,” she said.

“I will do more,” he replied without hesitation. “The man is hard of hearing. Did I tell him that I cannot take care of my own child? That he is offering support? We know what that support means, and we do not want it.”

She smiled at the we do not want part. “Papa, thank you for choosing me and making sure I go to school.”

There was a brief pause, then his voice softened. She knew he was smiling.

“My gift from God,” he said. “You will achieve everything—and even more. God’s timing is the best. Remember the daughter of whom you are. God is your Father. I am only a guardian, a middleman in His plans for your life. Do you hear me?” “Yes, Papa,” she replied, smiling.

Her father never tired of reminding her who her true Father was. He made it clear that he was merely entrusted with her for a season, while God remained the Author of her story. After exchanging final pleasantries, Mena tucked her phone into her bag and stepped into her next class.

LT 1 was much larger than she had expected. The lecture theatre stretched wide, with high concrete walls and a ceiling fitted with slow-spinning fans that hummed steadily above. Rows of long wooden desks descended in steps, already filled with students. Some flipped through notebooks, others scrolled through their phones, while a few chatted animatedly. The air carried a familiar mix of dust, paper, perfume, and warm bodies, the unmistakable scent of a full university lecture hall.

Mena paused briefly at the entrance, taking it all in, then made her way toward the front. She preferred sitting close to the lecturer, where she could listen attentively without distractions or obstructed views.

As she reached for an empty seat in the middle of the front row, she collided with another lady who was clearly heading for the same spot. “I am so sorry,” they both said at the same time.

Mena chuckled and clutched her African-print study bag tighter to keep her textbooks from spilling out. “You can have the seat. I will look for another place.”

The lady studied her briefly before shaking her head. “The seat is big enough for two. We can share.” She offered a small smile. “My name is Ziba.”

Mena noticed the fire in her eyes, a flame shaped by survival, yet beneath it lay a quiet warmth. “Thank you,” she said. “I’m Mena.”

Almost immediately, the lecturer walked in. She was a middle-aged woman with a firm posture and an authoritative presence. Without ceremony, she placed her handbag on the desk and scanned the hall.

“Please, close all the doors,” she said sharply.

Students who had been loitering outside rushed in, squeezing through the narrowing entrances as others hurried to find seats. Bags scraped against the floor, benches creaked, and murmurs faded into uneasy silence.

Within moments, the hall was still. Mena lifted her eyes briefly, whispering a silent thank you, God. Beside her, Ziba remained quiet, her gaze fixed forward, her expression guarded.