The first shadow

The sun had returned after days of endless rain, leaving the earth damp and green. That Sunday morning, our family compound buzzed with energy. Mama prepared light soup for lunch, Esther was sweeping the yard, and Prince chased a worn-out football across the grass.

It was on that day that Emmanuel came to eat with us for the first time.

He arrived dressed neatly, his shirt crisp and freshly ironed, his hair combed carefully. When he stepped into our compound, Mama’s face lit up.

“Ah, Emmanuel, you are welcome,” she said warmly, wiping her hands on her apron. “Come and sit. You’ll eat with us today.”

Papa glanced up from his seat under the mango tree, his expression unreadable. He didn’t speak immediately, only gave a brief nod before returning his eyes to the newspaper spread before him.

Lydia leaned against the doorframe, her smile sly. She whispered to me, “He looks nervous. You’d better hope Papa doesn’t scare him away.”

I nudged her with my elbow, though I couldn’t help but laugh softly. Emmanuel wasn’t the kind of man to scare easily, I thought.

We all gathered around the wooden table under the tree when Mama called us to eat. Bowls of steaming soup were set down, and the aroma filled the air. Emmanuel greeted everyone respectfully before sitting beside me. I could see Lydia and Esther exchanging knowing glances, while Mama tried to hide her smile.

But Papa—Papa was different. He watched Emmanuel with sharp eyes, speaking little. When he finally did, his words cut through the air.

“So, Emmanuel,” Papa said, his voice steady, “what are your intentions with my daughter?”

The table grew quiet. Esther stopped chewing. Lydia leaned forward, her eyes wide.

Emmanuel swallowed hard, but then smiled politely. “Sir, I care deeply for Matilda. I hope, one day, to make her my wife.”

His words made my heart swell with pride, but Papa only frowned. “Words are easy. A man’s character is harder to see. Remember that.”

Emmanuel nodded, though I noticed his hands tightening around the edge of his bowl.

After lunch, while the others cleared the table, Mama pulled me aside. “Your father is only being protective,” she said softly. “He doesn’t want to see you hurt. But I can see the boy is serious. Don’t let fear steal your happiness.”

I nodded, grateful for Mama’s reassurance, but Papa’s words stayed with me.

Later that week, Emmanuel invited me to meet his mother. I was both nervous and excited. Meeting his family felt like the next step toward a shared future.

We walked together to his compound, which was larger than ours, painted white with blue shutters. His mother sat on the veranda, her posture straight, her eyes sharp. She was a tall woman, dignified and commanding, with an air that made me immediately sit straighter.

“Good afternoon, Mama,” I greeted respectfully, bowing my head slightly.

She studied me in silence for a moment before forcing a smile. “You are Matilda, hm?”

“Yes, Mama,” I replied, my hands folded in front of me.

Her gaze swept over me from head to toe, not unkind, but not warm either. “So, you are the girl Emmanuel has been talking about.”

I glanced at Emmanuel, who gave me an encouraging nod. “Yes, Mama.”

She hummed softly, as if considering something, then said, “Well, I am glad to finally meet you. Emmanuel speaks highly of you.”

Though her words were polite, something about her tone unsettled me. It was the way she said it—like there was more she wanted to add, but chose not to.

After a few more minutes of conversation, she excused herself and went inside, leaving Emmanuel and me on the veranda.

“She doesn’t seem to like me,” I whispered.

“She’s just cautious,” Emmanuel said quickly, squeezing my hand. “Don’t worry. She’ll come around.”

I wanted to believe him, but as I looked at the doorway where his mother had disappeared, a chill crept into my heart. It was as if a shadow had fallen over us, one that would only grow darker in the days to come.

That night, lying awake in my bed, I thought about Papa’s warning and Mama Emmanuel’s cool gaze. For the first time since falling in love, I felt something unfamiliar—doubt.

But then I remembered Emmanuel’s words under the neem tree, his promises whispered in the rain. I clung to them, convincing myself that love was strong enough to overcome anything.

I didn’t know then how wrong I was.

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