Zainab hated weddings.
They were too loud, too emotional, and always stirred memories she worked hard to bury.
Unfortunately, she had no choice.
Her cousin Rashidat was getting married, and as the eldest unmarried daughter in the family, Zainab was expected to help coordinate everything—from cooking to welcoming guests.
By noon, the compound was filled with laughter, drumming, and women arguing over salt.
"A pinch is enough!"
"No, add more!"
Zainab focused on washing plates, keeping her heart quiet.
Kunle attended the wedding by accident.
At least, that was what he told himself.
His uncle insisted. "People are watching you. You can't hide in the house like a widow."
Kunle arrived dressed simply, hoping not to be noticed.
Then he saw her.
Zainab stood by the well, tying her headscarf, sunlight dancing across her face.
Something in Kunle's chest tightened.
Their eyes met.
Again.
Zainab looked away first.
She did not need this distraction.
But fate, like an impatient drummer, increased its rhythm.
"Zainab!" Rashidat called. "Please help me take food to the elders."
Zainab picked up a tray.
Kunle stepped forward instinctively. "Let me help."
Their hands touched.
Zainab flinched.
Kunle noticed.
Later, under the mango tree, laughter filled the air as guests ate and gossiped.
Kunle sat opposite Zainab.
"Do you enjoy weddings?" he asked gently.
She shook her head. "They remind me of things that don't last."
Kunle studied her face. "Who hurt you?"
Zainab laughed bitterly. "You people ask questions like it's pepper."
She stood up to leave.
But Kunle spoke again, softly. "I was engaged once."
Zainab paused.
"She died," Kunle continued. "Car accident. Two months before our wedding."
Silence fell between them.
Zainab sat back down slowly.
"My fiancé," she said after a long moment, "left me the day my father died."
Their eyes met, pain recognizing pain.
In that moment, something shifted.
Not romance.
Understanding.
Across the compound, an old woman whispered to another, "These two… they carry heavy stories."
As drums beat and dancers swayed, Zainab and Kunle sat quietly, aware that healing sometimes began with being seen.
That night, Zainab cried.
Not from sadness.
From release.
And Kunle, staring at the ceiling, realized that love did not always arrive with fireworks.
Sometimes, it arrived gently, carrying scars.