Let me tell you a story.

Six years ago, when I was twenty. I got married to husband number one, admist pomp and pageantry. I smiled, laughed, blushed and cried. Of course I had to cry, I was getting married. I was leaving my family, except that they had only done one good thing to me. Push me everyday.

Push me to study economics, push me to marry husband number one, push me to get pregnant, push me to stay in an abusive marriage.

Husband number one, whose name I won't mention, held my hand for the first time at our wedding dinner. He had smiled down at me with his absolutely innocent face. At that point I thought I had found respite from the strain on me from my parents. I thought it was all over.

One tip about him;

He looks innocent, has soft looks that draw you in, that hold you spell bound. He has this brown eyes, those eyes pull you in. They let let you in on his 'innocence '

So I was hurt, disappointed and anger was an understatement when he beat me for the first time.

Our marriage was four months old. Like a baby right?

After beating me, mind you, he beat me in places where it would never be noticed.

Ever.

He flogged me on the bum, on my hips and the back of my legs. And I'm a married woman so I'll always wear long skirts and no one will ever see. He beat me like a child who stole from the cookie jar.

He begged that day and he bought me this Yves Saint Laurent bag I had always wanted and I let it slide.

That day was the beginning of my misery. My full pot of misery. That day marked the beginning of being beaten and then pacified like a petulant child, pacified with gifts, expensive gifts.

The height of it came 19 months after our wedding and I had returned late from my cousin Khadijah's wedding, he beat the hell out of me that night and I bled out our twelve week old baby unto the living room floor.

"Ma'am, the people from Zaron are here. I've let them into the main conference room on the third floor, you also have to meet with Miss Dikko for her make up choice, you have twenty minutes after your meeting with Zaron to get to her." Rahma my secretary jerks me out of the reverie I am in.

Today, after signing that deal with Zaron cosmetics, I'll be one of the biggest professional Makeup store owners in Nigeria. I pick up my papers and walk to the elevator that will take me to the third floor.

Two hours later, I walked out of the conference room and sighed in relief, I just signed up to be one of the biggest marketers of cosmetics in Northern Nigeria, I've worked so hard this past two years, my hard work paying off is a big plus.

Thirty minutes later, I'm seated on a royal blue sofa talking to Khadijah Dikko about her wedding makeup.

"Khadijah, one of the dresses you'll be wearing, the one for the dinner I mean, is simple and understated, you need bold and loud makeup to pair it with." Her sister in law, Ajìkè Dikko, looks at me in thanks, they had been talking about it before I came in.

Khadijah's contemplation takes a few minutes and she finally agrees. She turns to her sister in-law " Ya Ajike, Nasir has always known me makeup free, I don't want to start my marriage by sending the wrong message out. You know how men can be."

"Deeju, a wedding is once in a lifetime, may it be so for you Insha Allah, if Nasir loves you he'll appreciate your makeup and not think rubbish. I need to cook lunch, your niece and nephew will soon be back."  She patted Khadijah's shoulder as she walked away, more like wobbled away. She looked like seven months pregnant and her dark skin glowed, I don't think my own skin can glow this well.

"Afrah, please wait for lunch, Deeju knows that you can't leave my house without eating. " I look at Khadijah who dusts her abaya of  cookie crumbs before walking away to the kitchen. She walks back a few seconds later to pull me along.

"Come with us, let's gist."

I walk into an absolutely beautiful spacious kitchen and Khadijah's sister-in-law is picking the stalks of the sorrel leaves.  She asks me with a smile "Tell me about yourself. "  She moves to a pot on the fire that turns out to be meat stock.

"I'm Nabeela Afrah Abdullah. A makeup artist and makeup store owner and Daughter to Alhaji Bilal Abdullah.  I think that pretty sums it all. "

She stops stirring the meat stock to frown at me for a moment. "I asked for you, not what you are.  I know all that about you, we are all females here. Tell me about Afrah. Tell me who Afrah is, away from all those earthly things." Khadijah's laughter is cut short by her sister in law's glare.

I sigh, and paste a fake smile on my face. I always try to run from situations like this one. I haven't personally made anyone up in a long while, I just practice and teach my students. I have forgotten how to smile or talk to people. I've forgotten to unload on anyone, people ask all the time 'what's wrong', but they misunderstand and misconstruct when you tell them.

They give fake sighs of concern, fake smiles of sympathy but warn their sisters to never emulate you.

It's how life is. It's how life is structured.

Khadijah's sister-in-law stops stirring the pot contents for a moment. "You can also skip talking about it if it gives you the chills, you are under no obligation to tell me what makes you frown, but you need to stop creasing that beautiful face."  I smile genuinely at her in thanks.

After eating one of the tastiest Miyan Taushe I've ever had in my life, I was set to leave.

"I'm Ajìkè, mother of two well soon to be three, wife, sister, sister-in-law, daughter in law, friend, editor, women's rights activist, food lover and bibliophile." I turned to look at her from where she was talking in the foyer, I was strapping my Micheal Kors sandals to my feet and her words stopped my hands. I watched her walk to me.

"I know, feel down somewhere there, you are hurting. But, I'll be here for you to talk anytime. I don't mind, I know, I'm older than you by a few years but take me as that elder sister you've never had. I keep all secrets."

She stretches out a rectangle card to me and as I collect it, she engulfs me in a hug and I felt the best peace I've had in the longest while. So peaceful.

I feel tears prick my eyelids and I shut my eyes hard to stop them from dropping, I feel I'm beyond tears, I have cried enough to last a lifetime. She pats my back gently and I'm tempted to walk back in with her and tell her everything I could not tell my mother. I truly wish I could have her as an elder sister. I wish I could talk to someone who isn't my therapist.

She comes out of our hug to pat my cheeks where a few tears have dropped careful not to smudge my eyeliner. Ya Ilahi, she's caring too.

As I walk to my car, my mind is made up. I'll take up her offer.

###

"Afrah, Ina kika shiga?"  Where have you been?

It's been nearly two weeks since we civilly talked last, if she's asking me where I've been, don't think she's asking because she's worried about me.  She has something to say.

I drop my purse on the red couch opposite her and sink to the rug making me look like a reverent child. Only I'm not.

"Your father has found someone for you and he asked me to tell you ahead, so you don't claim we forced you into this one." My heart beat is normal, my heart doesn't stop like it did the first time. My heart doesn't have this ache, it just beats as smoothly. As though she didn't just say a life changing news.

"Who" 

I've said it before, only a man married with two wives or more will be allowed by his mother to marry me, forget all those fairytale stories I buy at Adamspages. Where the divorced woman marries the man of her dreams and they live happily ever after.  Just forget them, these stories happen in one in two hundred thousand divorced women's lives. It's nearly impossible.

"...Adeel Baba Hassan, your father's friend's son has agreed to marry you."  Adeel Baba Hassan? The Adeel Baba Hassan? Ya Ilahi.

When did my father start to roll with billionaires  and how did he get Adeel to agree to marry me?  Is there some foul play connected to this marriage?

I look at my mother again, and sweep my eyes from her head to toes. She's sitting crossed legged on the love sofa trying to look important as important as a five feet three inches person can be, draped in an expensive veil from Dubai or Saudi Arabia( I don't know which)  and gold earrings, heavy set gold necklace and rings on all her hands.

My mother frowns at my silence which she has already taken for impertinence but there's nothing she can do about it. I sweep my eyes lower to her well sewn  expensive Atampa wrapper (wax prints)  and her feet encased in Gucci furry slides.

She's the Hausa woman's definition of money.  The Hausa woman starter pack for money. Anyways, that wasn't the reason I looked at her. I was trying to find a resemblance. The only thing I inherited from my mother is her nose, her soft pointed nose and hair, black silky hair that falls to my shoulders. I have full lips from my father, and my dark skin is also Courtsey of my father. My mother is light skinned.

"Toh, since Baba has made the decision for me,  let him go ahead, I have no objections." She looks at me in shock and then in happiness, picks up her phone and calls who I think is my father.  I don't wait to listen.

As I drive to work, my mind flits through memories of when I'd seen ABH last, we haven't met before and although Husband no 1 took me to parties, I used them to gain energy to deal with anything else he did to me. A tear runs down my cheek and I curse. My makeup is full today, I won't have tears spoiling it.

One thing is obvious though, they married me to a millionaire the first time. This time around to a billionaire, maybe I'll finally marry a poor man next time.

My phone chimes with a message as I walk into my office, I seat on my chair and ignore the message because I don't friends to message me, only network providers and Rahma. And I just walked past Rahma to my office. It's definitely my network provider.

My phone chimes again, this time I'm forced to look at it.  It's a message from an unknown number. I unlock my phone and read. Ajìkè Dikko. Ya Allah. This woman knows the right moment to text.

Her text asks me if I'm free on Saturday as she's having a small picnic for her baby shower and she wants me to be there. I mentally search my itinerary  and excitedly answer yes. I'll go get a gift for the baby later.

I save her number and go back to work. Adeel Baba Hassan, pushed to a corner of my mind. I'm not even checking his name out on any search engine. If Allah wills it to be good, it will, if He will that there be tribulations, I'll take as much as I can take and leave.