DREAMS DO NOT DIE- BY THE PUNSMITH

The neem tree outside their house had always been Rabi’s refuge, its sturdy branches offering a silent cuddle. But today, its shadows stretched like bars of a cage. Her mother’s voice cut through the air, firm and final.  

“You will marry Alhaji Muktar,” her mother said, her tone as unyielding as the iron pot on the fire. She adjusted her hijab with deliberate care, as if the act itself sealed Rabi’s fate.  

“Mama, please,” Rabi started, her voice trembling.  

“You think you know life better than me?” her mother snapped. “He has wealth. He has standing. You will never lack.”  

“But he doesn’t even know me!” Rabi’s words were a mix of defiance and desperation. “And I don’t love him.”  

Her mother's eyes hardened. “Love? What love puts food on the table? And that boy Bello? You think dreams will build a home? Dreams will bury you in poverty.”  

Rabi turned to her father, seated quietly in the corner, his gaze fixed on the woven mat beneath his feet. He didn’t speak, didn’t move. She understood his silence: he wouldn’t defy his wife.  

The wedding was a spectacle. Drummers sang praises, women in bright wrappers danced, and gold-threaded lace shimmered in the sun. Rabi sat stiffly, her face a mask of calm. The ululations around her sounded distant, as though she were watching someone else’s life unravel.  

Alhaji Muktar’s compound was everything her mother had promised—polished floors, vast courtyards, imported rugs. But the wealth couldn’t mask the emptiness.  

“Why do you need a degree now?” Muktar asked one evening, his voice indifferent. “You’re a wife. Act like one. And dress properly when my friends visit.”  

Rabi obeyed, but the loneliness was unrelenting. His words chipped away at her spirit, and his absence turned the house into a hollow fortress.  

“Is this how your mother raised you?” he asked after one of their many arguments, his voice sharp.  

Her isolation deepened, and with it came the pills. It started with codeine for her headaches. The relief was fleeting, but it dulled the ache enough to make her crave more. Shisha followed, a discovery in the servants’ quarters.  

When Muktar found her stash, his fury was swift. “You disgrace me, Rabi!” he roared. “I married you to bring honor, not shame.”  

Three months after the wedding, the marriage ended. There were no goodbyes, no apologies—just a terse dismissal. “Take her back,” Muktar told her parents. “Fix her or keep her. She’s your burden now.”  

The shame was suffocating. Her mother's voice, once so firm, now carried a sting with every word.  

“Do you know what you’ve done to this family?” she spat. “Do you think men like Muktar are common? You’ve thrown everything away!”  

Her father remained silent, his disappointment weighing heavier than words. Usman, her younger brother, avoided her gaze. The whispers of neighbors floated through the air like smoke, seeping into every corner of her life.  

Rabi retreated to her room, the pills her only comfort. University became a distant memory; she couldn’t face her classmates, their questions, their pity.  

The day Usman found her slumped on the bathroom floor, “Mama! Baba!” he screamed loud enough to rattle the walls. 

Rabi woke to the smell of antiseptic and the dull hum of machines. Mama sat beside her, her face lined with exhaustion.  

“Why, Rabi?” her mother asked, her voice trembling. “Why would you do this to yourself? To us?”  

Rabi turned away, her voice barely above a whisper. “You forced me into that marriage. I didn’t want it.”  

Her mother's breath hitched. “We only wanted what was best for you.”  

Rabi turned to face her then, her eyes hollow. “Your ‘best’ nearly killed me.”  

Her mother didn’t respond. For the first time, her face softened, the cracks in her resolve visible.  

Bello’s arrival at the hospital was unexpected. He walked in quietly, his presence steady.  

“I heard what happened,” he said, pulling up a chair.  

“You shouldn’t have come,” Rabi replied, her voice weak.  

He shook his head. “How could I not?”  

Tears pricked her eyes. “I’m not the same person, Bello. I’ve ruined everything.”  

“You’re still Rabi,” he said, his tone unwavering. “And that’s enough for me.”  

With Bello’s help, Rabi entered a rehabilitation center. He visited weekly, bringing books and stories from the outside world. Each session was grueling—an uphill battle against her body, her mind, her past.  

“Why do you care?” she asked one day, frustration lacing her voice.  

Bello smiled gently. “Because I see the Rabi who hasn’t given up yet, even if you can’t.”  

When she returned home months later, sober and determined, the whispers began again. But this time, her mother surprised her.  

One evening, under the neem tree, Rabi's mother spoke hesitantly. “Bello… he’s serious about you.”  

Rabi nodded, unsure of where the conversation was heading.  

Her mother sighed. “I was wrong. I thought wealth was everything, but I see now I didn’t listen to you. I didn’t think of what you needed.”  

Rabi blinked back tears. “Mama—”  

Her mother raised a hand. “Let me finish. If Bello is what you want, I won’t stand in your way. But promise me, Rabi, you’ll keep fighting for yourself.”  

Bello helped Rabi re-enroll in university. The first day back was daunting, but he stood outside her lecture hall, his quiet presence a reminder that she wasn’t alone.  

Years later, as she graduated, her parents and Bello sat proudly in the audience. When she spoke at a drug awareness program, her words carried the weight of her journey.  

“We are more than our mistakes,” she said. “And more than the expectations others place on us. Our strength is in choosing to begin again.”  

Her mother, seated in the front row, wept silently.  

That evening, under the neem tree, Rabi took Bello’s hand. “Thank you,” she said, her voice steady.  

“For what?” he asked, a smile tugging at his lips.  

“For seeing me when I couldn’t see myself.”  

The neem leaves rustled in the night breeze, and for the first time in years, Rabi felt whole.  

© ABDULMALIK YAHYA 

(The Punsmith)

Education and Events Office,

Sahel Scribes 

- Nigeria 

14-01-2025