BETROTHED (20:8:5 — 5:14:4)

 

The holiday swiftly faded, and the dawn of a new school session settled upon the students. Bags were dusted, boxes aired out, and provisions bought from bustling markets in preparation for resumption.

She sat across from her two beautiful daughters, who looked almost unbothered by what she was about to say. Just as she parted her lips to begin, Mama Rufus stepped onto the balcony, dusting her blue slippers.

“My sister, I am so sorry. I had some errands to run. We can proceed.”

Their resemblance was striking, like cold and fire, calm and flame.

Mama Yola gave her sister a firm look and adjusted her wrapper. “I am happy that you both are…” she paused, glancing at the two girls seated opposite each other, “…at the very least, cordial. And you will be heading back to school together. Do not forget your teachings and your prayers. God is always with you and for you. Please, be safe.”

A chorused response rose and gently died down.

Mama Rufus offered a prayer for them and bade them farewell, reminding them not to forget the essence of the privilege they had been given.

Ziba watched the two women, a quiet warmth stirring within her. She wished it was her mother giving that speech. She had zoned out, but was abruptly pulled back as Mama Rufus drew them both into a hug.

The journey back to school was dusty and long, yet unexpectedly eventful. Mena’s Papa had volunteered to drive them. He had just acquired a rickety tricycle at a good price and wanted his daughter to experience it. Light curtains were fastened at the entrance for a hint of privacy, and somehow, that small detail made it feel special.

They laughed more than they expected.

Ziba felt lighter, more at peace than when she had left the four walls of Tenja University. She hadn’t imagined that three weeks away could ease her, even if only slightly, from grief, loss, and loneliness.

As she gazed at the dusty road leading to Amena’s hostel, gratitude settled quietly in her heart, for friendship that had come in the form of two girls who carried a calm, steady love.

When they arrived, Mena’s Papa bade them farewell. They lifted their boxes, one notably wooden, and embraced one another. “I hope your hostel isn’t far,” Amena said, concern lacing her voice. “I thought you’d want Papa to drop you off.”

Mena smiled, happier than she let on. “Don’t worry. I just wanted to see your place. Mine isn’t far—a bike ride, and I’m home. I have an early start tomorrow, so I’ll just rest and unpack later.”

They both turned to Ziba, who was already flagging down a bike and securing her load at the back.

“I’ll see you both later,” she called, waving.

They stood, slightly stunned. Amena waved back slowly before heading into her hostel. Mena lingered a moment longer, a quiet sadness brushing her heart. She had imagined a longer goodbye, tighter hugs, louder laughter.

“God help Ziba,” she whispered.

*******************

She stood before the church window, staring at her reflection, uncertain, yet willing.

Two unfamiliar emotions stirred within her as well-dressed students and indigenes streamed into the church. Mena had slipped a paper advert into one of her textbooks before the holidays. Many nights, Ziba had found herself staring at it, long after the world had gone quiet.

She took one final glance at herself and steadied her breath.

Then she stepped in.

The service was already in motion. The choir led with fervent praise and worship, their voices rising like a call to something deeper. As Mena danced in quiet rejoicing, she turned, and caught sight of a familiar figure stepping in.

Ziba.

She blinked, unsure her eyes weren’t deceiving her. Quickly, she nudged Amena, whose hands were lifted high in praise.

Again.

Amena turned, slightly annoyed at the interruption, until she saw. They both stilled.

Ziba, in her flowery purple pinafore gown, walked cautiously into the modest, shed-like church, her eyes scanning the space. Their eyes met.

They waved, softly at first, then more insistently, guiding her toward them.

She came.

They shifted, making space for her. Ziba greeted Bro. Chima, who sat beside Amena. He moved over without hesitation, creating room for her to sit close to her friends.

As the praise continued, something unspoken passed through the moment, something deeper than words.

Ziba had found hope. Their hands found each other. They held on.

A gentle squeeze.

And somehow, it made all the difference.