TO LOVE A DANJUMA: THE SCENT OF ASH AND INCENSE

“She has to leave” was the thought running through Salma's mind as she brushed past the women singing in the yard, past the suffocating smell of the Turaren Wuta. Her eyes watering as she wrapped her shawl firmly on her, heading out in a daze.

The outside world seems oblivious to the whirlwind going through her mind, it felt peaceful, almost making a mockery of her as she walked under the brightly lit streets. Her skin seemingly glowing from the bridal Dilke from weeks of pampering. Every sight she took in felt almost like they were pitying her, she brushed the tears as they fell again and her eye caught his initials hidden in the intricate pattern of her Kunshi almost like a provocation adding more to the humiliation she suffered, her hands suddenly heavy almost like they were made of steel.

Almost like a flash she remembered his voice soft as the wind promising her “she will be his first and only love” and felt at ease. A feeling she had grown accustomed to. He was her sacred space until the illusion broke making her see him for who he was.

A painful chuckle escaped her mouth as she remembered the joy in her voice as she instructed the henna artist to hide his initials into the intricate pattern of her Kunshi, a ritual she had seen in her favourite Indian soap opera and she wanted to incorporate into her wedding as well. She remembered the joy as she told him she has a surprise for him during their phone sessions, planning to surprise him with the initials.

“Where did it all go wrong?

The question echoed in the quiet street as her mind dragged her backward, forcing her to remember the very beginning.

It had been at a family wedding, one she hadn't even wanted to attend. She remembered sitting off to the side, a quiet observer. The bridesmaids had flooded the hall in a burst of color and laughter, looking utterly radiant as they danced to the entrance song. One of them had laughed, reaching out to drag Salma onto the floor. For a few fleeting moments, she had danced along, losing herself in the music before slipping quietly back to her table.

And then, the shift happened.

Through the noise and the bright lights of the hall, a strange sensation prickled against her skin. Someone was watching her.

She looked up. Across the crowded room, their gazes locked. Just once.

He was handsome, carrying an effortless, boy-next-door warmth. Under the glowing lights, his rich ebony skin seemed to catch the illumination beautifully, and his eyes, the deep, warm color of cocoa, held her entirely.

Salma had found herself staring blankly, completely captivated, until a sharp elbow nudged her side, breaking the spell.

Asmatu leaned in, eyeing him up and down with a mischievous grin. "You like him?"

"No, I only think he has beautiful eyes," Salma said quickly, feeling her cheeks instantly burn with embarrassment.

"Oh!" Asmatu drawled, letting out a loud laugh. "So you are curious about him, aren't you?"

"You can say that," Salma retorted, shifting uncomfortably. "Anyway, I need to go. Umma is calling me."

Asmatu smirked, blocking her path slightly. "I don't think so."

"Shut up! What do you even know?" Salma shot back, throwing her hands up before fleeing the table.

Returning back to the party that day, she had found out he already left, leaving her with a lingering tint of sadness. She hadn’t even found out his name.

But maybe luck was finally shining on her, because she ran into him months later.

She, Asmatu, and their close group of friends,including Nosiroh and Nana had gathered for a small hangout at Nana’s place. That was where he stepped into the room. The moment he offered his soft teslim to the room, Salma felt her heart completely do a flip.

His voice is as soft as the wind, Salma thought, her eyes tracking his back as he began to walk out the door, consciously wanting to excuse them so they could feel at home.

Asmatu watched him leave, then leaned closer to Nana, her eyebrows raised. "That's your brother?"

"Yes," Nana boasted, straightening up proudly. "Isn't he a gentleman? Leaving just to make you guys feel at home."

"Yes, he is," Asmatu said, though her tone carried a subtle, mock-serious drag.

Salma caught the teasing immediately and nudged her friend. "Asma, stop that."

"What?" Asmatu fired back, totally unbothered.

"It's nothing, let's just continue our date," Salma said, trying to smooth things over before her cheeks turned bright red again.

But Asmatu wasn't done playing detective. She turned back to Nana, continuing her interrogation. "So, what does he do?"

"Oh, he works with my father," Nana answered casually. "He is going to inherit the family business after all."

"What's his name?"

Nana paused, looking at Asmatu with a sudden wave of suspicion. "Ibrahim. Why do you ask?"

"Nothing, just thought you both look so much alike," Asmatu shrugged.

"We are siblings, of course we look the same," Nana laughed, standing up from her seat. "Wouldn't it be weird if we didn't? Don't mind me anyway. What do you guys care for? I am heading to the kitchen, I'll have the maid bring it over."

Nosiroh, speaking up for the very first time, raised her hand. "I want some cookies and orange juice, please."

"Okay," Nana noted, turning to the other two. "And you guys?"

"Same with her, please," Asmatu and Salma answered together.

"Got it."

The moment Nana cleared the room and was completely out of sight, Salma whirled around to face her best friend. "What the hell were you doing earlier?"

"What?" Asmatu asked innocently.

"Playing detective, are we?"

"Yes, I had to!" Asmatu grinned, leaning in close. "You were literally giving him lovestruck eyes the entire time he was leaving."

"I wasn't!" Salma protested, her voice a hushed, embarrassed whisper.

"Yes, you were, and don't you dare deny it, okay?" Asmatu slapped a playful hand over Salma's mouth, cutting off her defense. "I know you more than you know yourself. So... shush."

Salma pried her friend's hand off her face, glaring but unable to hide her smile. "I hate you."

"I love you too," Asmatu winked, blowing her a dramatic kiss.

He hadn't come back when they were around or maybe he just wanted to wait until they left, leaving her utterly disappointed.

To her, he was a refreshing breath that brings her joy and for the next month, her routine went almost the same. School, house, outings with Asmatu and repeat.

Then one fine morning came and brought with it Ibrahim right at her doorstep asking for her hand in marriage. It felt almost surreal and her heart seemed to skip a beat. Her family also seemed to approve of him. Everything felt almost magical, until…..

Their first real fight had been about Zaydah,Ibrahim’s cousin.Always present.Always watching.

At first, Salma hadn’t minded her.

Zaydah was lively, witty, outspoken, effortlessly confident in a way Salma had never quite been. Her presence felt familiar, almost comforting, like Asmatu.

So Salma welcomed her.

But slowly,things began to change.

What had once felt harmless started to feel… intrusive.

Zaydah was always there.

Every outing, every conversation, every quiet moment that was supposed to belong to just the two of them.

And when there was no longer any reason for her to be there,she still stayed, as if she refused to step aside.

At first, Salma ignored it, told herself it didn’t matter.

But then the comments started, small, subtle, easy to dismiss, if you weren’t paying attention.

“You’re wearing that?” Zaydah had asked one afternoon, her tone light but her eyes sharp. “It’s… simple.”

Or,

“Ibrahim likes women who carry themselves well,” she had added once, glancing at Salma briefly. “Confidence is important.”

Zaydah was always smiling,always gentle,but never kind.

And slowly, it began to feel like something else.

Not advice.

Not concern.

But more like competition.

As if she was placing herself beside Salma, and asking to be chosen.

Salma tried to ignore it, tried to be patient.

But one evening, after yet another outing that didn’t feel like theirs,

She couldn’t anymore.

She called him.

“Ibrahim, we need to talk.”

There was a pause on the other end.

“About what?” he asked.

“Zaydah.”

There was silence,very short but tense.

“I don’t understand why she’s always with us,” Salma continued, trying to keep her voice steady. “There’s no reason for her to be there anymore.”

“She’s family,” he replied simply.

“That’s not the point,” Salma said. “We don’t have any privacy. It’s starting to feel uncomfortable.”

“You’re overthinking it.”

The words came too quickly,too easily.

Salma frowned.

“No, I’m not,” she said. “I’m just asking you to talk to her. Let her know she doesn’t need to come every time.”

Another pause.

Then,a sigh.

The kind that made her feel like she was already wrong.

“I think you’re being unfair,” he said.

Salma blinked.

“Unfair?”

“She hasn’t done anything to you,” he continued. “You’re just reading too much into things.”

Her grip on the phone tightened.

“I’m not reading into anything,” she said, her voice rising slightly. “She keeps making comments, Ibrahim. It’s not just in my head.”

“Comments?” he repeated. “Like what?”

Salma hesitated.

Because suddenly,

The things that had felt sharp and clear now sounded… small.

Petty.

“I just…” she started, then stopped. “It’s the way she says things.”

He let out a short laugh.

“So you’re upset over the way someone talks?”

Heat rose to her face.

“That’s not what I’m saying….”

“It sounds like jealousy to me,” he cut in.

The words hit her like a slap.

“What?”

“You’re letting your emotions cloud your judgment,” he continued calmly. “Zaydah is not your competition.”

“I never said she was!”

“But you’re acting like she is.”

His tone was steady, and certain.

Like he had already decided the truth.

Salma’s chest tightened.

“Ibrahim, I’m just asking you to respect how I feel.”

“And I’m telling you your feelings are misplaced.”

The silence felt heavy, almost suffocating.

Because suddenly,she didn’t feel heard.

She felt… dismissed, small.

“I didn’t expect this from you,” she said quietly.

“Maybe because you’re not thinking clearly,” he replied.

And just like that,

The conversation ended.

Not resolved.

Not understood.

Just… shut down.

That was the first time it happened.

The doubt.

It was small, quiet, but dangerous.

“Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe,just maybe the bond between them were just close family bonds” She had tried to convince herself.

She held onto that thought,repeated it and believed it.

Because it was easier than accepting the alternative.

And then,the silence began.

No calls, no messages, nothing.

At first, she waited, thinking he was busy.

Then she got worried and blamed herself.

By the time he finally spoke to her again,

She was already apologizing.

“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

A pause.

Then his voice, calmer now.

“It’s fine.”

Relief flooded her instantly.

It felt warm and overwhelming.

“I didn’t mean to upset you,” she added.

“I know,” he replied. “Just try not to create problems where there aren’t any.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see her.

“I won’t.”

And just like that,

Everything was “okay” again.

He even stopped bringing Zaydah along.

And Salma smiled, relieved, grateful.

Unaware that she had just learned how to shrink herself to keep him.

After her graduation from the university, he had proposed promising to make her the happiest bride on their wedding day. Then, her parents started asking her questions.

“Who is Zaydah? Her mother, Hafsah had asked her 2 months into their wedding preparations.

“Oh! That's Ibrahim's cousin from his mother's side. Why did you ask, Ummi? She asked in confusion.

“Nothing much, dear. I have just been hearing some rumours about her marrying into the Danjuma’s family the same day as you, but the groom is still unknown.” Hafsah said with distaste in her tone.

“The same day?

“Yes, but I am not sure how true that is, though.” Hafsah has said with uncertainty in her voice.

“I will ask Ibrahim when I call him today,” Salma said, though her voice lacked conviction. “Let your mind be at rest, Ummi. She might be betrothed to one of his stepbrothers.”

“I sincerely hope so, amma if it is true then, he is disgracing our family and your father is already thinking of calling off the wedding. You know he will never think of letting you suffer any grievances likewise your little brother.” Hafsah said as she stood up, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders.

But as her mother walked away, a cold weight settled deep in Salma's chest. She stared at her phone, her thumb hovering over Ibrahim’s name, yet her hand trembled. She wanted to demand answers, but the shadow of their first fight loomed heavily over her mind. She remembered the suffocating weeks of his silent treatment, the sharp way he had turned her valid questions into proof of her own ‘paranoia’ and ‘jealousy.’

If she confronted him now, would he punish her with silence again?

The realization tasted bitter: she was the one holding onto this relationship with bleeding fingers, loving him fiercely while he held her at a safe, convenient distance. She swallowed her doubts to keep the peace.

The illusion broke entirely three days later at her designer’s workshop.

Fate always has a wicked way of playing tricks when you least expect it. Salma had spent months meticulously designing her custom outfits for the lavish, multi-day wedding events. Today was supposed to be a quiet, private victory lap, the final fitting for her Kammu night gown.

She had simply asked Ibrahim to drive her to the atelier. She never intended for him to see the dress yet, let alone the rest of his family. But because Ibrahim lacked even a shred of boundaries, he had allowed his mother and Zaydah to pile into the car under the casual excuse of running nearby errands.

When they arrived, Salma went inside alone, leaving them in the car. She thought she was safe.

Inside, the atelier was warm, buzzing with the hum of sewing machines and the rich, expensive scent of newly pressed silks and patterned lace.

"It is ready, Salma," the head designer smiled, pulling back the heavy velvet curtain of the fitting room.

For a moment, Salma’s breath caught in her throat.

It was stunning. The structured silhouette, the fluid drape of the premium fabric, it was exactly what she had envisioned. A modern, elegant masterpiece.

She stepped forward onto the viewing pedestal, her fingers trembling slightly with pride as she brushed the smooth texture. "It's perfect."

"Perfect?"

A voice dripping with honeyed poison cut through the room.

Salma’s hand stilled. She whirled around, her heart dropping as the workshop door swung open.

Zaydah stepped smoothly into the private space, having successfully convinced Hajiya outside that they needed to 'supervise' the modern tailors. Right behind her was Ibrahim's mother, her face set in its usual cold, critical mask, with a spineless Ibrahim trailing quietly in their wake.

Zaydah tilted her head, inspecting the gown with a heavy, judgmental sigh. "Well... I wouldn't say perfect. It’s nice, really. But don’t you think it’s a bit... modern? A bit inappropriate for a proper Danjuma bride?"

The word inappropriate hung in the air like a foul scent.

Salma straightened her spine, keeping her voice calm but defensive. "It's a contemporary cut, Zaydah. I designed it this way intentionally."

"I just think," Zaydah continued softly, turning to Ibrahim's mother with a perfectly rehearsed look of modest concern, "that a family as prominent as the Danjumas expects a certain standard of tradition. This looks a bit... loud. Don't you think so, Hajiya?"

Ibrahim’s mother, who had never truly warmed up to Salma, eagerly swallowed the bait. She nodded sharply. "Exactly what I was thinking. It doesn't reflect what is expected of our family. It’s too modern."

A suffocating weight pressed down on Salma’s chest. She turned her eyes to the corner of the room, looking straight at her fiancé.

She was waiting. Hoping. Praying for him to speak.

Ibrahim rubbed the back of his neck, refusing to look Salma in the eye. He looked at his mother, then at Zaydah's pleading, "innocent" face.

"I think they have a point, Salma," Ibrahim muttered, his voice lacking any spine.

Salma felt the air leave her lungs. "What?"

"It’s just a dress," Ibrahim shrugged, throwing his hands up as if her shattered dream was an inconvenience. "You're being overly sensitive and petty about this. Just let the designer alter it to what Hajiya wants. Let's not make this a big deal."

"I am not being sensitive," Salma said, her voice dropping to a dangerous, trembling whisper. "I have spent months working on this fabric—"

"Aba, no one is attacking you," Zaydah interrupted smoothly, scoring easy family points as she patted Ibrahim's mother’s arm. "We’re only trying to help you avoid embarrassment. Right, Ibrahim?"

"Yes," Ibrahim snapped, giving Salma that familiar, icy look that promised days of the punishing silent treatment if she didn't comply right now. "Stop being difficult, Salma. Change the design."

Standing under the bright lights of the workshop, looking at the man she loved taking his cousin's side without a second thought, something inside Salma finally cracked.

But on the eve of the Daurin Aure, none of those past arguments seemed to matter anymore. Or at least, Salma tried to convince herself they didn't.

She sat in the center of her family's room, her skin glowing radiantly from weeks of bridal Dilke pampering. The air was thick and heavy with the sweet, suffocating smoke of the Turaren Wuta. Out in the yard, the women were singing joyful wedding songs, but inside, Salma’s chest carried a quiet, lingering ache.

She watched the henna artist painstakingly hide Ibrahim’s initials into the intricate Kunshi patterns curling across her skin. It was a ritual she had romanticized from her favorite soap operas. She had hoped it would bring back the magic. She needed it to.

Then, Nana walked into the compound.

The moment Salma looked up, she noticed her friend's usual joyful, boisterous energy was completely missing. Nana looked at Salma’s radiant bridal glow, and a visible, heavy guilt seemed to choke her.

Nana had only found out the truth a week ago. She, too, had been kept in the dark by the family elders, blindly assuming Zaydah was being betrothed to one of their older stepbrothers. She had come tonight to break the news herself, to protect her best friend from the ultimate humiliation.

Nana opened her mouth to speak, her eyes shiny with unshed tears. "Salma... I need to…."

She never got the chance.

A notoriously nosy auntie wandered over from the courtyard, loudly clapping her hands together as she barged into the room.

"Ah, Nana! You are here too?" the woman chirped, her voice cutting through the space like a blunt blade. "I just saw you over at Zaydah’s compound supervising her henna night! My goodness, the Danjuma family is blessed this weekend! But tell me, how is the double wedding actually going to work tomorrow? Is Ibrahim going to sit with Salma first for the reception, or is he going straight to his cousin Zaydah’s pavilion?"

The room went dead silent.

The singing outside seemed to fade into a distant, mocking echo. The sweet scent of the Turaren Wuta instantly turned into pure carbon monoxide, clogging Salma's throat.

She couldn't breathe. She literally couldn't breathe.

"Salma, please, let me explain," Nana choked out, reaching forward. "I didn't know, Ibrahim didn't…"

Salma didn't hear the rest. The room tilted. The beautiful, dark henna on her hands suddenly felt like burning acid, the hidden initials mocking her very existence. The humiliation was a physical weight crushing her sternum.

She has to leave.

The thought didn't just cross her mind; it consumed her entire being.

Pushing past Nana's reaching hands, tearing herself away from the finished henna, Salma blindly grabbed her shawl. She brushed past the singing women in the yard whose voices now felt like an insulting parody of her life, wrapped the fabric firmly around her face, and fled into the dark, empty streets in a daze of panic and shattering betrayal.

The tears blurred her vision as she stumbled under the bright streetlights, her hands feeling like heavy steel. She was so trapped in the agonizing whirlwind of his betrayal that she didn't even hear the roar of the speeding vehicle. She stepped off the curb directly into a pair of blinding high-beams.

Tires screeched violently against the asphalt. Before the metal could connect, a pair of frantic hands grabbed her shawl, violently yanking her backward onto the pavement.

Salma hit the ground, gasping for air as the smell of burnt rubber cut through the lingering scent of wedding incense. She looked up through her tears to see Asmatu standing over her, face deathly pale with terror as she shook her by the shoulders.

“Are you out of your mind?! Salma, look at me!'

Collapsing into her best friend's arms on the cold street, her tears soaking Asmatu's shawl, the illusion of her safe harbor died completely.