An excerpt from an ongoing series of: Her perspective

UNDER THE VEIL

"But you have no other option than to marry him, eh?" my mother said, using the edge of her veil to wipe my tears. My four younger sisters surrounded me, their small faces streaked with tears.

"Mama, I don't even like him! He's ugly, fat, shapeless, and smells like an unwashed dog," I retorted amid my sobs.

"Taa! You will not speak ill of your husband!" my mother snapped, rolling her eyes at me. "And what do you want people to say, eh? This man has come all the way from Yasnrinka to marry you," she continued, her tone softening only slightly as if that justified everything.

"And he is wealthy," my aunty chimed in from the corner. I had even forgotten she was there.

I turned to look out the window, my tears blurring the view of the dusty road that led to my father's farm. I was fifteen. I had just finished secondary school. I wanted to be a doctor, a surgeon like Ben Carson, the man I had read about in the novels tucked under my mattress.

I would have applied for the Commonwealth Scholarship to study at Harvard in the United States. Representatives came to our school just weeks ago, discussing the endless opportunities and exposure their program offered. My friends had gossiped that it was all just a show, a ploy to boost their diversity numbers.

I didn't care. Even if I was just a statistic to them, I would have taken any chance I got.

But here I was. My scholarship dreams and operating tables were replaced by wedding ceremony traditions.

"He will take care of you and give you round, plump babies," my mother continued, her voice softening. "Always obey him and submit to him. A good wife knows her place."

I didn't respond. I just kept crying.

"Sister, are you going to see us off to school?" Yarmin, my youngest sister, asked with innocent eyes.

"No, Yarmin. Your sister is going to her husband's house," my aunty answered. "She's not going to school anymore."

My mother bent down, fastening the final anklet around my leg. She stepped back, smiling as if she had just completed a masterpiece.

Another aunty entered the room, carrying a bowl filled with kola nuts and other ceremonial items.

“Eh, don’t disappoint your father o, “ they chorused as they handed me the bowl.

“Let’s go and get you married, “ my mother said.

We began to dance out to the waiting crowd. My cousins led the way, singing and clapping. My mother and aunties followed, my sisters trailing behind. I was in the middle, like a cow being led to the slaughterhouse.

WHO WILL SAVE US NOW ?