Chapter 1
Amina
I was ten years old the morning my life stopped belonging to me.
My mother woke me earlier than usual, her hands gentle but firm on my shoulder. “Get up,” she whispered. “We have visitors.”
The smell of millet porridge drifted in from the kitchen outside, mingling with the scent of damp earth from last night’s rain. I pulled on my wrapper and stepped out into the yard, rubbing the sleep from my eyes.
My father was sitting on the bench under the neem tree, his posture straight in that way he only used when someone important was around. Beside him sat Chief Musa, the wealthiest man in our village. I knew him by sight; of course everyone did. His voice carried weight in every dispute, his herds grazed on the best pasture, and his three wives were always dressed in the brightest Ankara.
I froze when his eyes settled on me. He smiled, not unkindly, but in a way that made me feel like he was measuring me, the way people measure a goat before buying it.
“She’s grown,” Chief Musa said to my father. “Strong arms for her age.”
My father chuckled, though it sounded tight. “She takes after her mother.”
I greeted them quietly, keeping my eyes low. I didn’t understand why they were studying me so closely. I was just a girl who fetched water, swept the compound, and sometimes played at the river when my chores were done.
Later that morning, my mother pulled me aside as I was helping her pound millet. “Amina,” she began, her voice softer than usual, “your father has agreed that you will be promised to Bashir.”
I blinked at her. “Bashir? Chief Musa’s son?”
She nodded. “It will be good for you. He will take care of you.”
“Why?” The question slipped out before I could stop it.
Her eyes shifted away from mine. “Because your father owes Alhaji Musa, and this way, the debt will not crush us.”
Debt. I didn’t know how much or how it came to be, but I understood enough to know it was something heavy, something dangerous.
That evening, Bashir came to find me. He was twelve, two years older than me, and had the easy confidence of a boy who had never been told no. “They said you will be my wife,” he announced, grinning as if he’d just won a prize.
I crossed my arms. “And if I don’t want to?”
He shrugged. “Then they will make you. But don’t worry. I’ll let you play with my marbles.”
I wanted to throw a stone at him, but instead I just turned away.
The months that followed were strange. People started treating me differently. The older women would smile at me when Bashir was nearby. The younger girls whispered to each other when I passed. When we played by the river and the community borehole, the boys would tease us, calling me “Bashir’s wife” and laughing.
I began to notice how often our families were in each other’s company. Whenever Chief Musa visited, my father would put on his best kaftan, and my mother would make sure there was meat in the stew.
One afternoon, I overheard my parents talking when they thought I was asleep. My mother’s voice was low but urgent. “She’s too young,” she said.
“She won’t marry him now,” my father replied. “But the promise is made. And promises are like iron you don’t break them without breaking yourself.”
School was another matter. I had always wanted to go to the government school like some of the other girls, to learn letters and numbers and maybe even read stories for myself. But my father refused.
“What use are books to a wife?” he said. “You will learn what you need at the domestic school.”
So instead of a classroom, I sat in a room full of girls, learning how to cook a perfect meal, how to keep a husband’s clothes neat, and how to greet elders with respect. I learnt how to be the kind of wife people praised for her obedience.
At night, I would watch my younger brother practising his letters in the dim light of the low current electricity, his pencil scratching softly on the paper. My fingers itched to hold the pencil myself, but I kept quiet. Some dreams were dangerous.
I never forgot that morning under the neem tree, the way Chief Musa’s eyes had looked at me like I was part of some agreement I hadn’t agreed to. I didn’t understand all of it then, but I knew one thing: my life was no longer mine to shape.
And yet, deep inside me, something small and stubborn whispered that maybe, just maybe, it didn’t have to stay that way forever.
