A local pastor arrived, wiping sweat from his forehead. A plastic table stood in the sitting room with a Bible, a pen, and one artificial flower bending sideways in a bottle.
Uncle Gideon wore his best agbada and self-importance. Aunt Sarah tied her gele too high, as if height could turn bitterness into class. Deka and Reena sat together, looking as though they had come to watch a punishment.
Nia entered last in a pale green dress that had once belonged to Deka. It had been badly altered. One sleeve was tighter than the other. A faint oil stain sat near the waist. Mama Tulu had secretly given her a little shea butter and a pair of earrings missing one stone.
“They are not new,” the old woman had whispered. “But from far away, nobody will know.”
Nia wore them like treasure.
She had no bouquet. No mother to adjust her hem. No father to bless her forehead.
Only herself.
Timba was already seated. His clothes were still modest, but cleaner than before. The old coat had been replaced with a plain dark tunic. His cane rested against his chair.
When Nia sat opposite him, he did not stare or smile too widely. He simply gave her one quiet look that said, I am here, and I am steady.
The pastor read quickly.
“Marriage is patience. Marriage is kindness. Marriage is faithfulness.”
Words everyone says.
Words few people honor.
