February 7, 2025
Fiction

Unbroken silence

anote
  • October 29, 2024
  • 5 min read
Unbroken silence

By Chinedu Vincent Okoro

THE pressure to get married has become overwhelming, with relentless whispers and probing questions from everyone around me. It’s escalated to the point that I feel compelled to share my story publicly, even though I once vowed I’d never discuss it on social media. My journey to love wasn’t the stuff of fairytales; it began with a woman I couldn’t stand—Amina. At the time, we were practically sworn enemies, both certain the other was insufferable.

It all began when I enrolled in a six-month theater course, hoping to sharpen my acting chops. Amina, fresh from studying drama in the UK, was three months into her own one-year program. She’d been advised to join the production to familiarize herself with the Nigerian film industry. One fateful day, our instructors assigned us to a group stage performance, mixing both new and old students. That’s how Amina landed in my group—and how the powder keg between us was lit.

I cast her as the witch in our play, and every time she delivered her lines, I’d stop her, saying she wasn’t giving enough energy. She bristled at my critiques, calling me a “know-it-all” with no talent. Tempers flared, and soon our insults were cutting deeper. Finally, our director had to step in, and Amina threatened to quit the group if she had to stay with me. Without another word, the director moved her to another group. I later found out he’d done it because Amina’s father was a powerful senator, someone the school was wise not to cross.

From that moment, she and I became enemies. I tried to make peace, but she detested me. Our rivalry was well-known, a joke among the other students—until the unthinkable happened.

One evening, we found ourselves alone, stranded after a long rehearsal that ran late into the night. A heavy rainstorm broke out, forcing us to seek shelter together. Trapped in close quarters, the hostility between us simmered down. We started talking, our words softening in the glow of dim, flickering lights. I saw a side of Amina I hadn’t seen before: vulnerable, funny, passionate. Somewhere between the laughter and the silence, I realized I was falling for her. And, unbelievably, she was too.

Our love, however, faced an enormous obstacle—our religious differences. Amina’s mother was quietly supportive, but her father was another story. Determined to break us apart, he’d done everything to discourage Amina, but she held on. Finally, he invited me to their home. His tone on the phone was surprisingly polite, and I dared to hope that he might relent. I even assured Amina that I wouldn’t ask her to convert if we married; she could practice her faith as she pleased.

I arrived at their house with a strange feeling in my gut. The gates swung shut behind me as soon as I entered, and Amina’s father came out, gesturing towards a waiting jeep. “Get in,” he said calmly, as though we were merely going for a drive. Inside, I was wedged between two burly men, with two more up front. The atmosphere turned cold as we drove further and further from the city, entering a dense, secluded forest.

We stopped, and the men hauled me out. One bouncer leaned close, asking if I understood why I was there. My mouth went dry, and before I could answer, a slap landed on my cheek, snapping my head sideways. They began beating me ruthlessly, using fists, kicks, even a wooden plank. I was calling on “Mother of Perpetual Help” between gasps, feeling consciousness slipping away.

Somehow, through the blur, one of the men convinced the others to leave me alive. “He’s learned his lesson,” he murmured, his voice cutting through the haze of pain. They dumped me in the mud, bleeding and barely conscious. Hours later, I awoke in a stranger’s house. One of the bouncers was there, standing with a friend. He told me that Amina’s father had ordered my death, but he couldn’t bring himself to finish me off. He’d paid for a taxi to take me to safety.

I also learned that Amina’s father, in his fury, had sent her back to the UK the moment he discovered that we had secretly married in court—and that she was pregnant. He’d severed all contact between us, telling her I’d died. She gave birth to our daughter, far away and believing I’d been taken from her. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of her and our child, of what was taken from us.

So here I am, speaking up, hoping this reaches her. To her father, I ask for forgiveness, not out of fear, but out of a yearning to be a father to my child and a husband to Amina.

* Okoro, a Rotarian, educator, poet and advocate for social change and mental health, writes from Abuja, Nigeria

Spread this:

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *