Chapter 1: The Field of Choices

At the polo match, Tunde use him mallet take jam my leg, just so him mentor’s daughter fit win.

When that mallet touch me, pain run through my body like NEPA wire wey spark. I grip my leg, dey fight tears, but pride no go gree make I cry for front of people. Riders and their family just dey watch—some dey whisper, some dey pretend say nothing happen. My aunt’s keepsake, that fine hairpin, dey shine for display table, untouched. Tunde raise head, sun catch him face; but for him eye, na only cold determination I see, as if say I no even dey there at all.

Half a month pass before he finally show face for our house.

He waka inside empty-handed—no kolanut, no apology gift—just bounce enter, him shoes dey tap Mama’s tiles. As he sidon for parlour like say nothing do, Mama clear her throat small, her eyes follow am from top to bottom, letting am know say for our side, person suppose bring something come, even if na small. But Tunde just balance, no tension, like say he come discuss business, not to beg.

“Before my mentor die, he put Zainab for my care.”

His voice calm, steady, e get that Garba Kingdom man tone—serious, like say the world rest for their shoulder. The way he talk Zainab, you go think say na diamond e dey protect.

“I only see her as sister—abeg, no reason am too much.”

He raise hand, palm open like person dey beg, but him eye still no meet my own. Na only the air between us dey heavy, full of wetin nobody fit talk. Na that kind time you go wish say breeze go just blow you comot.

I just nodded, quiet.

I nod small, keep face strong. I dey wonder if e dey expect me to break down or beg. My chest tight, but I no go let am see any weakness. I sip my zobo, pretending to watch lizard wey dey run for window. The zobo dey cold for my tongue, but my chest still dey burn.

He didn’t know.

E no know wetin dey do me. E no fit imagine how e pain me reach bone, the kind pain wey deep like river. But me, I lock everything inside, because for here, if you talk too much, dem go call you pikin. I just let the moment pass, cold breeze enter window, and I start dey count Papa’s old wall clock.

That very day, as I reach house, I agree to Okoli family marriage proposal.

I enter my room, draw curtain tight, and as Mama enter, I no even let her finish talk before I nod. My voice just small: “Tell them yes.” Mama hug me, her perfume strong like jasmine, but inside my mind, na only Tunde dey circle round and round. I carry pen, write my name for acceptance letter. Rain begin fall for outside, as if sky dey cry the tears wey I no fit shed.