In the town of Ipetu-Ode, where red earth kissed bare feet and palm trees whispered old secrets, marriage was not just between two people—it was between families, ancestors, and destiny itself.
Zainab Adeyemi did not believe in love stories.
At twenty-seven, she believed in hard work, prayer, and waking up before the first cockcrow to open her mother's small provisions shop. Romance, in her opinion, was a luxury for women who had time to waste. Life had taught her early that dreams were fragile things.
Her father died when she was sixteen.
Her mother aged overnight.
And Zainab became the pillar of a house that leaned too heavily on her shoulders.
That morning, as she balanced a tray of sachet water and bread on her head, her friend Bimpe ran toward her, wrapper half-tied and breathless.
"Zainab! Have you heard?"
"Heard what? That kerosene has increased again?" Zainab replied without stopping.
"No! A big man has returned to town."
Zainab rolled her eyes. "Another politician?"
"No, no. This one is different. His name is Kunle Adebayo. Educated abroad. Rich. Fine. And—" Bimpe lowered her voice dramatically, "—not married."
That made Zainab stop walking.
Not because she was interested.
But because unmarried men over thirty in Ipetu-Ode usually came with trouble.
Kunle Adebayo stood in front of his late father's compound, heart heavy.
The house looked smaller than he remembered, yet it held the weight of memories. His father, Chief Adebayo, had been a respected man—a disciplinarian, a community leader, and a man who believed marriage was the foundation of a man's honor.
Kunle had delayed it too long.
Now his father was gone.
And the last words his uncle spoke to him echoed like a drumbeat in his head:
"Your father wanted to see you married in this town."
Kunle sighed.
He had returned to bury his father, settle family matters, and leave.
Marriage was not part of the plan.
But destiny, as African elders say, does not ask for permission.
The collision happened at the market.
Zainab bent down to pick fallen tomatoes at the same moment Kunle stepped back to avoid a goat.
Their heads met.
Hard.
"Aaaah!"
"Ha!"
Zainab's tray fell. Sachet water scattered like rain.
"I am so sorry!" Kunle said quickly, helping her up.
"Sorry ke?" Zainab snapped. "You nearly broke my head!"
The crowd laughed.
Kunle smiled apologetically. "Please, let me pay for everything."
Zainab looked at him properly for the first time.
Tall. Well-dressed. Soft-spoken.
And irritatingly calm.
"I don't need your money," she said, lifting her tray again. "Just look where you're going."
As she walked away, Kunle watched her back, confused.
Most women would have seized the opportunity.
This one didn't even blink.
That evening, Zainab's mother cleared her throat during dinner.
"My daughter," she said gently, "people are talking."
Zainab stiffened. "About what?"
"They say Chief Adebayo's son is looking for a wife."
Zainab laughed. "Mama, please eat your food."
Her mother smiled knowingly.
In another part of town, Kunle's aunt was already rubbing her hands together.
"The girl I saw at the market today," Kunle said casually, "what is her name?"
"Ah!" his aunt clapped. "So you noticed her?"
Kunle frowned. "I just asked."
His aunt laughed. "Zainab. Strong girl. Good family. Very stubborn."
Kunle leaned back in his chair.
Stubborn.
For the first time in years, marriage did not sound like a cage.
It sounded like a challenge.