The Ache Of Farida(Part One)

“Farida, you have to get married.”The words were gentle, but they carried no kindness.She sat on the wooden bench outside her parents’ house, twisting the edge of her wrapper. The evening air felt too still, as though the world itself had paused.“We cannot keep fending for you,” one of the women said. “Your parents are gone. The village has decided.”“I am only seventeen.”“And that is why this is the right time,” an elder replied. “Before you become a problem.”A problem.That night, she packed what little she owned. By morning, she belonged to another house. Chief Bobo was not what she expected.Older, firm, measured. His presence carried no cruelty.“Farida,my dear” he said the first evening. “You will be comfortable here.”And for a while, she was.Not happy. Not afraid.The house was large, its routines predictable. Chief Bobo moved quietly, words few, tone controlled. Sometimes, he brought her gifts—a length of fabric, a pair of stilettos,and perhaps a bag.Sometimes he asks if she'd like to go see the villagers,but she never said yes to that.“You are too quiet,” he said once.“I do not know what to say,” she replied.“You'll learn.”It was final. Not kind. Not cruel.And slowly,she loosened. Not trust—but something close enough.But like everything else,it did not last.Basike noticed her. At first, only his gaze—too long, too familiar. She felt it before she saw him, a shift in the air that made her shoulders tense.“Good afternoon,” he said. She nodded and moved past him quickly.One afternoon, the house was empty.Farida was folding clothes when she felt his gaze on her.Basike stood at the door.“You avoid me.”“I do not.”“You do.”He stepped inside.“You should not be here,” she whispered.He closed the door.The sound was soft. But heavy.“You need to leave,” she said.A sharp sting across her face, sudden and disorienting. Her body tilted, her shoulder striking the edge of the bed before she fell.“You talk too much,” he said.She pressed her palm to the mattress, trying to rise. “what did I do to you?” she whispered.Her voice was already fading. He came back. Not once. Not rarely. Often enough that the space between his visits never felt like freedom.The same footsteps. The same door. The same silence after.Always her room. Always her door. Always her.Whether she spoke, resisted or stayed silent,there was a consequence.So she learned. Not how to stop it but how to endure it.She stopped crying early. Tears did not change anything. They only delayed it.She learned stillness. Absence. How to leave herself while remaining in the room.When Chief Bobo found out, Farida thought—foolishly—that something would change.Instead,they got worse. He stood before her, face unreadable.“You have dishonored me.”“I did not—”“Silence!!"“You expect me to believe this happened without your consent?”Her throat closed.Across the room, Basike stood quietly. Watching. Saying nothing.Chief Bobo did not look at him.“I gave you a home. A name. And this is how you repay me?”Something inside Farida broke. Quietly. After that, the house changed. Outside, nothing was different. Chief Bobo still introduced her with pride. People admired her composure, her beauty, her silence.But inside, his kindness disappeared. What remained was colder, heavier.“You will not embarrass me,” he said once, gripping her wrist.“I won’t.”“I'll make sure you don't”Basike still came. Every few days. Always her door he found. Always her. Years passed. One became two. Two became five. Then eight.Time did not heal. It settled.By the eighth year, Farida had mastered silence. Stillness. Survival.The mirror became her refuge. Each morning, she sat before it in silence. Careful hands. Steady movements. Powder to blur what should not be seen. Color to return what had been taken.She always wore make up. It was her mask to the façade Chief Bobo always held outside.Outside, she was flawless and composed. A wife worthy of admiration.At home, the ache remained. Quiet and consistent.By the eighth year, Farida no longer asked if it would end. She only wondered—what would happen when it does end.

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