When the door opens, I know it's him.
Alhaji Usman steps inside, dressed in a crisp white kaftan that shimmers under the chandelier's light. He smells of oud—deep and musky, like wealth itself. A leather suitcase in one hand, a box of chocolates in the other.
My favorite chocolates.
My body locks up, heart pounding.
He smiles, warm, almost fatherly. "I thought you might be hungry." He holds the box out. "These are your favorite, aren't they?"
I hesitate before taking it, fingers brushing the glossy packaging. How does he know that?
I want to ask. I don't. Baba probably filled him in on it.
"Thank you," I whisper.
He settles into the velvet armchair across from me, placing the suitcase at his feet. His movements are slow, deliberate, as if I'm something fragile.
"How are you settling in?" he asks. "I hope the other wives welcomed you."
Sisi's sharp words. Halimat's mocking remark. Uwar Gida's unsettling warmth. But what's the point in telling him?
"They were kind," I lie.
He chuckles. "Halimat can be… difficult. But you'll find your place." His eyes scan the silk curtains and the chandeliers. "I wanted you to be comfortable."
Comfortable.
I grip the chocolate box tighter, trying not to think about the lock outside the door.
"I know this isn't easy," he says, voice softer now. "I'm sorry… for taking you from your home. From your father."
His kindness is making it all worse. Men like him don't apologize, at least not to girls like me.
He leans forward, gaze steady. "I chose you because I care, Hauwa. Because I want to give you a better life."
Something tight in my chest eases. Maybe I misjudged him. Maybe Uwar Gida is wrong about tonight.
"I want a better life too," I blurt out before I can stop myself. "I want to study medicine. I—I want to be a doctor."
His silence stretches, then he smiles. "Of course you do. And you will."
I blink. "I will?"
He nods. "Why shouldn't you? You're smart. Ambitious. I admire that."
Relief floods through me. Maybe this won't be as bad as I feared. Maybe I can still hold on to my dreams.
A real smile breaks through as I open the chocolates. My hands shake less as I pop one into my mouth, rich sweetness melting on my tongue.
He watches me. Patient. Quiet.
I don't notice when he reaches for the suitcase.
By the time I finish my last piece, he clicks it open, pulling out a small satin bag. Deep red. Silky.
"For you," he says smoothly.
I frown as I take it, rubbing the delicate fabric between my fingers. When I open the bag, my breath stumbles.
Lingerie.
Lace. Red. Tiny.
A chill slips down my spine.
"You'll look beautiful in it," he says, voice as soft as when he promised me school. "Why don't you put it on?"
The chocolates I just swallowed turn bitter in my stomach.
I want to say no. To refuse. But his kindness—the chocolates, the promises—holds me back.
I stand, legs trembling as I walk to the bathroom. My fingers clutch the satin bag tightly like a lifeline.
Inside, I peel away my dress and slip the lingerie on. It clings too tight, too revealing. My reflection looks unfamiliar. Older. Like someone who had no choice but to grow up overnight.
When I step back into the room, his eyes darken with something I recognize from movies but can't name. Something that makes my stomach lurch.
"You're perfect," he murmurs.
I swallow hard.
"Do you know why I brought you chocolates?" he asks.
I shake my head.
He smiles, but this time, it's different. Sharper. "Because chocolates make a woman… responsive. Wet. And since it's your first time, I don't want too much stress."
The floor sways beneath me.
The warmth, the kindness. It's gone.
I was stupid to believe him.
But it's too late.
My body screams at me to run, but my legs won't move. My breath is shallow, heart hammering. He pats his lap.
"Come here, Hauwa."
My feet feel like lead as I take one step, then another, until I'm standing before him. His smile makes my stomach churn. He's measuring how much more I can give before I break.
He reaches out, tracing the strap of the lingerie. "So beautiful," he murmurs. "I knew you would be."
I force my voice to stay steady as I search for a distraction. "You said I could study medicine."
His grin widens, flashing gold. "And you will. Didn't I tell you I want the best for you?" His hand slides down my arm, resting on my wrist. "But a wife's first duty… is to her husband."
The word wife doesn't feel real. Doesn't feel like me.
"I'll take care of you," he says, as if that erases the fact that he bought me like a property.
I nod. Not because I believe him. Because I don't know what else to do.
"Good girl," he praises. "You're learning already."
I feel sick, but I manage to smile.
He tugs my hand, guiding me onto his lap. His touch is light, savoring. My skin crawls beneath his fingers, but I force myself to stay still. To stay quiet.
Because if I fight, what then?
"You're nervous," he observes, brushing a strand of hair from my face. "That's natural. But you'll get used to it, Hauwa. In time, you'll even like it."
I won't. I never will.
But I just nod again, staring at my lap, where his hand rests too comfortably against my thigh.
His fingers tilt my chin up, forcing me to meet his gaze. No warmth. No kindness. Just possession.
"You'll be my favorite," he whispers. "I can already tell."
I want to disappear. To become nothing.
Instead, I stay still as he lowers his mouth to my neck, his breath hot against my skin. Tears burn, but I refuse to let them fall.
Crying won't save me. Nothing will.
So I do the only thing I can.
I close my eyes.
And I wait for it to be over. But to my horror, it gets worse.
A heavy slap jerks my head sideways. My vision blurs.
"What do you take me for, little girl?" His voice is low. Dangerous. He stands, advancing toward me.
I stumble back, searching for an escape. There is none.
"Do you think I'm a rapist?"
"N—no," I stammer. I don't understand how he reached that conclusion.
"Then why do you close your eyes like I'm not your husband?"
Before I can answer, his hand fists in my hair, flinging me onto the bed. My stomach lurches.
He rips the lingerie from my body. "Position yourself," he orders.
I can't move.
Another slap. My ears ring.
He pushes me flat, the sound of his zipper cutting through the air.
When he thrusts into me, pain rips through my body. My nails dig into the sheets.
He mutters something about how dry I am, and I can feel his increasing frustration as he struggles to get in again. I get scared of him transferring the aggression but there is barely anything I can do.
I do not know why I am not responsive, and this is the first time a man is doing this to me. I close my eyes, expecting his fist on me again, but that doesn't happen. He simply spits into his palm and rubs it between my legs before shoving deeper. It works for him, but it resumes my hell.
I scream.
He doesn't stop.
Each thrust is sharp, tearing me open. Eventually, my tears dry up. I go still, numb to everything but the ache.
I just want it to be over.
After what feels like an eternity, he groans and collapses beside me.
I think it's done.
Then, he turns me onto my back, staring at the sheets. His satisfactory face twists into suspicion.
"You're not a virgin, are you?"