When my parents used to tease me about Zainab being my wife, I always laughed it off as a joke. That is, until my 13th birthday, when Baba sat me down for a serious conversation. He explained that Zainab had been betrothed to me since childhood. I was stunned. How was that even possible in this modern age? I thought arranged marriages were relics of the past, not something an educated man like my father—Professor Lawal Abdul of the Federal University—would seriously consider. And certainly not something he and his best friend, Captain Ahmed, a pilot, would conspire to uphold.
At thirteen, I barely understood love, but I knew enough to be sure that I didn’t like Zainab. We attended the same school, and I had seen many beautiful girls—Zainab was definitely not one of them. Her large forehead, big teeth, and thick nerdy glasses set her apart, and not in a way that appealed to me.
If my parents wanted to cement their decades-long friendship by becoming in-laws, that was their business. But dragging me into it? That was outright madness. How could they, in good conscience, decide on a life partner for me? It made no sense. And to make things worse, Zainab had been infatuated with me since she was practically in diapers. She was always fawning over me, always seeking my attention—it was suffocating. The very thought of marrying her was unbearable.
Education became my escape. I chose to study in the UK, not necessarily because I wanted to, but because it was my only way out. Away from home, I was free from the constant pressure, the never-ending reminders that one day, I would have to marry Zainab. I was always being pushed to befriend her, to “give her a chance,” but I wanted no part of it.
Distance worked its magic. With time, the talk about Zainab faded into the background. My father, however, never let me forget. He often warned, No matter how far you run, this matter will still be waiting for you when you decide to settle down.
For years, I avoided going home. I always had an excuse—until Baba threatened to disown me if I didn’t return. Reluctantly, I boarded the bumpy flight from Heathrow to Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport in Abuja. The journey was made more bearable by the stunning woman seated beside me. She exuded intelligence and confidence, and I was instantly drawn to her.
She refused to tell me her name, so I dubbed her The Lady in Red—a fitting title, given her red glasses and red jacket. We connected effortlessly, talking about everything from politics to literature. She was sharp, witty, and undeniably attractive. By the time we landed, we had exchanged numbers, and I promised to call her.
Back home, the pressure resumed almost immediately, but Binta—The Lady in Red—became my escape. We spoke for hours whenever I could steal a moment away from family obligations. She was a breath of fresh air in the suffocating reality of my arranged future.
Then, Captain Ahmed invited Baba and me to dinner. It was an orchestrated meeting, an attempt to rekindle discussions about my marriage to Zainab. Reluctantly, I went along.
As we entered their home, we were greeted by none other than Binta.
I froze. What was she doing here?
Then, like a bolt of lightning, it hit me. Z-Bints. That was her old nickname in secondary school.
Zainab was Binta!!!
I was speechless. The woman I had spent hours talking to, the one I found so captivating, was the same girl I had spent my whole life rejecting. She had recognized me that day on the plane but had chosen not to reveal her identity. Now, it all made sense—why she never let me visit her house, why she never visited mine.
For three weeks, I had unknowingly poured my heart out to the very person I had once shunned.
I was upset that she had kept this from me, but after a long conversation, we moved past it. Our fathers, sensing my newfound enthusiasm, reignited discussions about our marriage.
But this time, there was a problem.
Zainab didn’t want to marry me.
She reminded me of how I had treated her as a child, the humiliation I had subjected her to simply because of the way she looked. I had never once tried to know her beyond her appearance, yet now that she had transformed into someone I found attractive, I suddenly wanted her. She refused to be a consolation prize. Even if it meant being disowned, she was determined to make her own choices.
“Haba, Zainab,” I pleaded. “I was just a child. I didn’t know any better.”
For two weeks, we went back and forth. She stood her ground, refusing to change her mind.
Now, I’m due to return to the UK. I’ve overstayed my visit, but I can’t leave without knowing if Zainab will ever forgive me, if she will ever see me as more than the boy who once dismissed her. I’ve fallen for her, and I want nothing more than to spend my life atoning for my past mistakes.
Can someone please tell me what to do?
