Once upon a time, there was a woman named Kyoma. She was twenty-eight years old, beautiful in a quiet, graceful way, and she walked like someone who had learned to carry herself with dignity even when life was not fair.

She was seven months pregnant, and her stomach showed proudly beneath the soft cream gown she wore that evening. Her smile came easily, but not foolishly. And when she looked at you, she made you feel like she saw more than just your face.

Kyoma had waited many years for a love she could trust. And now she believed she had found it in Abuka. He was smart, polished, well-spoken. He always knew the right words to say and how to say them. He made her feel safe. He made her laugh. He held her hands tightly when she was afraid of giving birth. And he whispered things like, “You’re my whole world. Tomorrow we’re getting married.”

The house was full of noise. Cousins rushing up and down. Aunties in headscarves frying chicken in the backyard. Someone shouting from the hallway: “Who kept the baby wipes inside the cooler?”

It was loud, joyful chaos.

Kyoma sat on the edge of the bed in her childhood room, gently rubbing her belly in circles. Her white veil was hanging on the door, waiting for the next day.

Linda, her cousin, walked in without knocking. She always did.

“Kyoma,” Linda said, chewing gum as she sat beside her. “Are you just going to sit here till morning? You’re not even going to do something special for your groom.”

Kyoma looked at her with a tired smile. “What kind of special thing?”

Linda rolled her eyes. “You’re about to marry the love of your life, and you won’t even deliver his gift yourself. He’s staying at Marary Hotel tonight. You can sneak in. Give him that gold wristwatch you bought. Write a sweet note. It’ll blow his mind.”

Kyoma laughed softly. “Linda, I’m tired. My legs hurt. I’ve been on them all day.”

Linda leaned close and whispered, “Exactly why it’ll mean even more. Do it for love.”

Kyoma hesitated. “You think it won’t feel awkward showing up unannounced?”

Linda stood up and placed her hands on her hips. “It’s your man. Your wedding is tomorrow. You’re carrying his baby. If there’s anyone who should knock on his door tonight, it’s you.”

Kyoma thought about it for a moment. Then she stood up. “All right,” she said. “I’ll go, but I’m not staying long.”

Linda smiled wide. “Good girl.”

Marary Hotel wasn’t far. It was just past the fuel station and across the street from a tall glass bank building. It looked quiet and elegant under the night sky, glowing with soft yellow lights.

Kyoma stepped out of the Uber holding a small paper bag. Inside was the wristwatch and a folded handwritten letter. She walked slowly, her hand under her belly, her other hand carrying the bag.

At the reception desk, the woman behind the counter looked up.

“Good evening,” Kyoma said gently. “Please, I’m looking for Mr. Abuka. He checked in earlier today.”

The receptionist typed something into the computer and smiled. “Yes, he checked in this evening. But he’s not alone. His instructions said no interruptions.”

Kyoma blinked. “He’s not alone?”

“Yes. He came in with a woman.”

Kyoma’s heart dropped a little. “A woman?”

The receptionist nodded politely. “Yes.”

Kyoma forced a smile. “Okay. Thank you.”

She stepped aside and walked slowly toward the elevator. She pressed the button and stood there, staring at her reflection in the shiny doors.

Her fingers began to shake. Her eyes were wide, but her face stayed still. She didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Maybe it was his sister. Maybe it was a friend. Maybe it was someone from the wedding planning team.

But as the elevator opened and she stepped in, something in her chest said, Go up there. Don’t ignore this feeling.

She pressed the button for the seventh floor. The hallway was silent. The air was cold. Her slippers made soft tapping sounds as she walked down the red-carpeted floor.

She passed room 708. Then 710. Then she paused. Room 712.

The door wasn’t open, but she could hear voices. Muffled at first. Then laughter.

And then a sound she didn’t want to hear. Moaning.

Her hand covered her mouth before the scream could escape. She moved closer, placing her ear carefully near the doorframe.

It was Abuka’s voice. Clear. Calm. Laughing.

“Kyoma is too emotional these days. Always talking about our future. I’m only marrying her because of the baby. If she wasn’t pregnant, I’d be out.”

A woman giggled. “You’re wicked.”

He said, “She thinks this is love. But she’s nothing without that baby. Once the wedding is done, I’ll control everything.”

More kissing sounds. The bed squeaked. Then silence, followed by more moaning.

Kyoma’s lips trembled. Her eyes filled with tears—but they did not fall.

Kyoma reached into her handbag and pulled out her phone. With shaky fingers, she opened the voice recorder and pressed record.

She didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She stood there listening, holding her phone steady. She recorded the words, the sounds, the proof.

She wanted to vomit, but she held it in.

The recording lasted almost six minutes. When it stopped, she backed away slowly, almost like a ghost. She walked back to the elevator, still recording the empty hallway as she moved.

Her hand touched her belly again. But this time it wasn’t with joy. It was with protection.

She would protect her child.

Back in the Uber, her face was pale. The driver asked if she was okay. She nodded silently.

She didn’t go back home right away. She asked the driver to stop at a nearby pharmacy. She bought water, tissues, and a new memory card. She copied the recording to it. Then she sent a backup to her email.

She sat in the car for five minutes, breathing. The driver didn’t say anything. He just waited.

Kyoma finally looked out the window and whispered to herself: I am not the fool you think I am, Abuka. Tomorrow I’ll show you.

Kyoma didn’t sleep that night. She lay on her side, wide awake, staring at the wall in the dark. Her phone sat on the bedside table, still glowing from where she had replayed the recording over and over again.

She had heard his voice. She had heard the laughter, the moaning, the lies. There was no mistake.

She was seven months pregnant with Abuka’s child. And while she was dreaming about forever, he was upstairs in a hotel room with another woman, mocking her, laughing about controlling her life after the wedding.

Kyoma didn’t cry. Not a single tear dropped from her eyes. The pain was sharp, but it didn’t break her. She held her belly gently and whispered to her child in the darkness:

“I’ll protect you. I promise no one will ever use you to hurt me again.”

The fan above her head turned slowly. Outside, crickets chirped. Inside, her heart burned.

At 5:12 a.m., she stood up from the bed. Her mind was clear.

By the time the sun came up, the compound was already busy. Women were peeling yams. The decorator had arrived with ribbons. Aunties argued over seating arrangements. Loud gospel music played on the speaker near the kitchen. Everyone was excited.

But Kyoma moved like a shadow through the house. Quiet. Focused.

She went into the guest room and shut the door behind her. Then she picked up her phone and dialed a number.

The man who answered had a deep, slow voice.

“Uncle Ia,” she said.

“Kyoma, is everything okay?”

“No sir. I need your help. Please don’t ask questions. I’ll explain everything later. But I want you to pull out your investment from Abuka’s business.”

He paused. “Pull out? The wedding is tomorrow.”

“I know. That’s why I’m asking now—before it’s too late.”

“Did he do something?”

Kyoma’s lips tightened. “Yes. But I can’t talk over the phone.”

There was silence. Then the voice said softly, “I’ll take care of it. Are you safe?”

“I am now.”

“Good. I’m proud of you.”

She ended the call. Then she made the next one.

“Barrister Fumdi,” she said as the voice picked up.

“Good morning, Kyoma! Excited for the big day?”

Kyoma didn’t smile. “Barrister, I need you to cancel the marriage license. I want it withdrawn from the registry completely.”

There was a short pause. “Wait, what?”

“I’ll pay any extra fee. Just don’t let that license be valid tomorrow. Not even for one second.”

“Kyoma, is this about Abuka? Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure in my life.”

The lawyer sighed. “All right. I’ll call the registrar’s office before they open. But Kyoma, please—”

“Just do it. I’ll send a formal message now.”

“Okay. I’m on it.”

Kyoma hung up and finally exhaled. She had no ring on her finger yet—and she would make sure she never wore his.

By 8:00 a.m., Linda walked into Kyoma’s room holding two plates of jollof rice.

“Morning, bride-to-be,” she said, acting like nothing happened. “You didn’t eat dinner, so I brought you something small.”

Kyoma looked at her cousin. “Really?”

Linda was smiling too much. Her voice was too sweet. Her eyes kept darting away like she couldn’t hold Kyoma’s gaze for more than a few seconds.

“Thank you,” Kyoma said, taking the plate without touching it.

Linda sat beside her on the bed. “Are you okay? You look tired.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh, it’s just nerves. Big day tomorrow.”

Kyoma smiled faintly and nodded. “Yes. Big day.”

“I saw your dress hanging on the door,” Linda said, grinning. “You’ll look like a queen.”

“I hope so.”

Linda picked up one of the bangles on the table and wore it. “I wish I was in your shoes. Abuka is a real catch. Handsome, rich, loyal…”

Kyoma turned her head slowly. “Loyal?”

Linda froze, then laughed quickly. “Of course, I mean… he loves you.”

Kyoma nodded and stood. “Thanks for the food. I need to rest.”

Linda stood too, brushing her dress. “Sure. Just call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

As soon as the door closed behind her, Kyoma locked it. Then she walked to the mirror and looked at her reflection. She touched her hair, her belly, her face.

“Tomorrow I’ll show you who you played with,” she whispered.

Later that afternoon, Abuka called. She let the phone ring twice before picking up.

“Baby,” his voice came through smooth and sweet. “How are you?”

“I’m fine.”

“You didn’t pick my last call.”

“I was with family.”

“Oh. You know I can’t wait to see you walk down that aisle tomorrow, right? I couldn’t even sleep last night.”

Kyoma pressed her lips together. “You didn’t sleep?”

“Not really. I just kept thinking about you and our baby. We’re really doing this.”

“Yes. We are.”

He chuckled. “You sound serious. Are you okay?”

“I’m just tired. You know pregnancy and wedding don’t mix well.”

“True. But once we’re married, you’ll rest plenty. I’ll spoil you silly.”

Kyoma nodded, even though he couldn’t see her. “I believe you.”

Abuka continued, “I already checked with the photographer. The drone will be in the air by 11:00 a.m., and the MC will announce our first dance right after the pastor prays.”

“Okay.”

There was a pause. “Kyoma, are we good?”

“We’re perfect.”

Abuka laughed. “That’s my girl.”

They ended the call. Kyoma stared at the wall for a while. Then she got up and began writing names on a list—names of people she wanted to see her victory, live and in color.

That evening, her father walked into the room holding a small white Bible.

“My daughter,” he said gently, “let me pray with you.”

Kyoma stood and took his hands. He closed his eyes and said, “Father, tomorrow is the beginning of a new chapter. May this marriage be filled with peace, love, and loyalty.”

Kyoma said nothing. Her hands trembled slightly in his.

“Amen,” he whispered.

She opened her eyes slowly and nodded. “Amen.”

But in her heart, she prayed a different prayer: Let the truth be louder than his lies.

The next morning, the sun rose quietly. Birds sang. Flowers opened. The world acted like everything was fine.

Kyoma sat in the makeup chair, staring at her reflection as the artist applied powder to her face.

“You’re so calm,” the woman said. “Most brides are shaking by now.”

Kyoma smiled lightly. “I’m ready.”

Her gown was laid out on the bed—the same one Linda had helped her pick weeks ago. As the makeup artist moved to her lips, Kyoma’s phone buzzed.

It was a message from her lawyer: License cancelled. Officially withdrawn. No valid marriage can take place today. Good luck.

Kyoma smiled.

Downstairs, Abuka was already waiting in his wine-colored suit. He looked perfect. Clean haircut. Polished shoes. He stood outside greeting guests as they arrived, laughing, shaking hands, looking like the man every mother wanted for their daughter.

He had no idea.

Linda stood beside him in a gold bridesmaid dress, grinning like a thief who had never been caught.

Kyoma looked at them both through the window. She wasn’t angry anymore. She was ready.

Back in her room, she pulled out the memory card and slid it into a small device. It was a Bluetooth audio connector.

The church hall had big speakers, and the mic system was wireless. Once she got the mic, all she needed was thirty seconds.

She put the small device inside her bouquet, hidden but reachable. Then she whispered to herself one more time:

Not every bride gets to wear a gown and walk into her freedom.

The convoy was ready. The cars moved. The people cheered. The cameras rolled. Everyone thought they were going to witness love.

But Kyoma was taking them to war.

The church stood tall with white walls and gold ribbons tied on every window. Inside, chairs were neatly arranged. Pink and cream flowers filled the altar. A giant banner above the stage read: Welcome to the wedding of Abuka and Kyoma.

People laughed, whispered, took photos. Ushers moved around fixing small things, arranging chairs, pointing guests to the correct side. The choir tested their microphones. Everything was perfect—or so they thought.

Outside, Abuka stood proudly near the church entrance, shaking hands with his groomsmen. He wore a sharp white suit with black velvet details. His wristwatch sparkled in the sun. Every now and then he checked his phone, smiling. His friends clapped him on the back.

“Today is your day, bro. You pulled a smart one. Kyoma is top class. God really favored you.”

Abuka laughed loudly. “I told you, didn’t I? When a man knows what he wants, he goes for it.”

Linda stood nearby in her bridesmaid gown, pretending to take photos of the decorations. She stole glances at Abuka, biting her lower lip. When their eyes met, she quickly looked away and smiled to herself. But inside, she was burning with pride. She thought she had won.

She had slept with the groom the night before the wedding—and her cousin Kyoma had no idea.

Meanwhile, inside a different car, Kyoma sat still like stone. Her makeup was flawless. Her face glowed. Her veil covered her face softly. Her gown fit her perfectly, white silk that floated like water around her.

People were watching from outside as her bridal car pulled into the church compound. Children screamed: “The bride is here!” Phones came out. Guests rushed forward to get a picture.

Inside the car, Kyoma stared straight ahead. She did not smile. She did not blink. Her hands rested on her belly, but her fingers were wrapped tightly around the bouquet that held the small device inside.

Beside her, her father whispered, “Are you ready, my daughter?”

Kyoma turned to him slowly. “Yes, Daddy. I’m ready.”

The door opened. She stepped out. And just like that—the air changed.

Every guest stood to their feet. Heads turned. Some gasped.

“Oh wow… Kyoma looks like a queen. She’s so beautiful. God really created this one with extra time.”

She walked gently, each step deliberate. Her face calm but unreadable. The sun touched her skin like it knew she was the main event.

As she entered the church, the organ began to play softly. The ushers guided her in.

Abuka’s face lit up when he saw her. He couldn’t stop smiling. He leaned toward his best man and whispered, “She came. I was starting to think she’d change her mind.”

The man chuckled. “You’re lucky. Not every woman will carry your child and still look this good.”

As Kyoma walked slowly down the aisle, her eyes locked on Abuka’s. She didn’t look left or right. She didn’t wave. She didn’t smile.

Abuka thought it was nerves. He smiled even wider and whispered, “You look amazing.”

Kyoma said nothing.

She reached the altar. Her father gave her away and kissed her forehead. She took her place beside Abuka and turned to face Pastor Ben.

The pastor smiled at them and raised the microphone. “Good morning, everyone. Today is a special day—a day where love wins, a day where two hearts become one.”

Kyoma’s fingers tightened around the bouquet. Her heart was beating like a drum inside her chest, but her face stayed calm. She looked at the pastor. Then she looked at Abuka. She waited.

The pastor continued for a few minutes, blessing the couple, talking about unity, love, and trust. Then he looked at Abuka.

“Groom, it’s time to say your vows.”

Abuka smiled proudly. He took the microphone.

“Kyoma,” he began. “From the first day I met you, I knew you were special. You brought peace into my life. You brought joy. You brought a future.”

He turned slightly, facing her. “You carry our child. And with each day, you carry more of my heart. I promise to love you, protect you, and be your partner in everything. Today I give you my word—forever.”

Everyone clapped. Some people wiped their eyes.

Linda watched from the front row with a small grin. She kept glancing at the couple and then down at her phone, secretly recording everything.

Abuka handed the mic back to the pastor.

Now it was Kyoma’s turn.

The pastor turned to her. “Bride, your vows, please.”

Kyoma didn’t move.

There was a pause. Then she slowly took the microphone. But instead of speaking, she reached down into her bouquet and pressed the button on the small device.

It connected. The sound system crackled.

A second later, a voice played loudly from the speakers.

“Kyoma is too emotional these days. Always talking about our future. I’m only marrying her because of the baby. If she wasn’t pregnant, I’d be out.”

A woman giggled.

“You’re wicked.”

“She thinks this is love,” Abuka’s voice continued. “But she’s nothing without that baby. Once the wedding is done, I’ll control everything.”

Then came the sound of kissing. Laughter. The bed squeaking.

Gasps filled the church. People looked around in shock.

“Is that Abuka’s voice?”

“Wait… what is happening?”

Someone stood up. “Turn it off!”

But Kyoma stepped forward.

“No,” she said calmly. “Let it finish.”

Abuka’s face turned white. He reached for the microphone, but Pastor Ben held him back.

“Kyoma,” the pastor said. “What is this?”

She turned to face the crowd. “This,” she said softly, “is what happened last night while I was home praying for this day. This is what my groom was doing.”

She held up the microphone. “That was recorded on the seventh floor of Marary Hotel, room 712. That’s where my groom and his real lover spent the night.”

Gasps turned to murmurs. Phones came out. People began recording.

Abuka stepped forward, trying to speak. “Kyoma, it’s not what you think—”

She turned to him sharply. “Not what I think? You mocked me. You said I was nothing without this baby. You laughed with another woman in a hotel room while I lay awake, believing in us.”

Abuka reached for her hand. “Please, let me explain—”

She pulled away. “Don’t touch me.”

Linda stood now, pale and shaking. She tried to leave the row quietly, but Kyoma’s voice rang out.

“Oh, and before anyone asks who the other woman is—look no further.”

She pointed at Linda. “Meet my cousin, maid of honor, bridesmaid—and the woman my groom slept with last night.”

The church exploded. Women screamed. One woman fainted.

Abuka froze. Linda covered her face and sat back down. Pastor Ben looked like he couldn’t breathe.

Kyoma removed the veil from her face. She lifted her head and looked out at the guests.

“I came here today to marry a man I thought loved me. But instead I found out the truth—just in time.”

She took off her engagement ring and dropped it on the floor.

“I won’t cry today. I won’t run. I will walk out of here, head held high, and raise this child in peace. Alone.”

She stepped off the altar. People stood to their feet, shocked, unsure what to do.

Abuka stood frozen in place, his mouth open but no words coming out.

Kyoma turned to the choir. “You may start singing now—but not for a wedding. Sing for freedom.”

Then she walked down the aisle, bouquet still in hand, dress flowing behind her like a queen in battle.

As she reached the doors, the choir began to sing. Guests clapped—slowly, then faster, then loudly. Phones were everywhere.

The bride didn’t look back once.

Outside, the sun hit her face. Fresh air filled her lungs. Her baby kicked. And for the first time in days—she smiled.

Outside the church, Kyoma stood under the hot sun, holding her gown up slightly so it didn’t drag on the ground. Her bouquet—the same one that held the hidden Bluetooth device—now hung loosely by her side.

She wasn’t crying. Her face was calm. But there was something new in her eyes. Strength. The kind of strength that comes from heartbreak, the kind that doesn’t need noise to be heard.

A small crowd had already followed her out. Some were trying to talk to her. Others just stood back, watching in silence.

A woman from her father’s church came close, her voice soft. “Kyoma, my daughter, are you okay?”

Kyoma looked at her with a steady gaze. “I will be.”

Someone shouted from behind, “What happened inside? Is the wedding cancelled?”

Another woman replied before Kyoma could speak. “Cancelled. She exposed him. The groom was cheating—with her own cousin.”

Gasps echoed. Some guests who had not entered the church yet were now rushing to their cars, whispering into their phones.

Inside the church, the atmosphere had turned cold. No music. No joy. Just shame and confusion.

Abuka was still standing at the altar, his hands shaking, his mouth moving but no words coming out.

His mother, Mrs. Mardu, ran to him from her seat. “Abuka, what is this nonsense? Is it true? Tell me it’s a lie!”

Abuka looked at her with wide eyes. “Mommy, I… I don’t know what she’s talking about.”

She slapped his shoulder. “You don’t know? We all heard the recording. Your voice. Your wicked laugh. Are you mad? You disgraced this family!”

“Mommy, please—”

She shouted over him. “You brought shame to this church! To this family! With a pregnant bride and your cousin-in-law!”

Abuka rubbed his face. “I didn’t mean for this to happen. I thought I could fix it before the wedding.”

Pastor Ben sat down quietly, still holding the Bible, his head bowed.

It was the first time in twenty years of officiating weddings that he had seen a bride take down her own groom on the altar.

One of the elders walked up to him slowly. “Pastor, what do we do?”

Pastor Ben lifted his head. “We pray.”

At the same time, Linda tried to sneak out through the side entrance. She kept her head down, holding the edge of her gown, her hands shaking. She had lost all color in her face.

But just before she reached the door, two women blocked her path.

“You’re going nowhere,” one of them said.

“After what you did, you still have the nerve to walk away like nothing happened,” the other added.

Linda looked around helplessly. “Please, let me go. I didn’t mean—”

“You didn’t mean what? To sleep with your cousin’s fiancé the night before her wedding?”

Linda’s eyes filled with tears. “It was a mistake.”

The first woman laughed bitterly. “A mistake that lasted all night in room 712.”

Linda tried to push past them, but more people had surrounded her now. Some were shouting. Others were recording. She knew she couldn’t escape.

Meanwhile, outside, Kyoma’s father came up behind her and placed his hand gently on her shoulder.

“My daughter,” he said. “Let’s go home.”

Kyoma turned to him slowly. “I’m not done yet.”

He looked confused. “But what else is left? You’ve said everything. You’ve already walked out.”

Kyoma’s eyes didn’t blink. “There’s one more thing.”

She turned around and began walking back toward the church.

Her father followed. “Kyoma, are you sure?”

“I’m sure,” she said quietly.

As she reached the door, the crowd stepped aside. Even those who didn’t know what was going on moved away to make space for her.

Her gown flowed behind her like a storm returning.

She stepped back into the church. The silence was loud.

Abuka saw her and took a step forward. “Kyoma, please. I know what I did was wrong, but don’t walk away like this. We can fix this.”

Kyoma didn’t stop walking until she was back at the altar. She looked straight at Pastor Ben.

“Sir, may I speak one last time?”

He nodded slowly and gave her the mic again.

Kyoma turned to the guests.

“I want to say something. Not just for me, but for every woman who has ever been lied to. For every woman who carried a man’s child while he carried secrets. For every woman who trusted love and was paid with betrayal.”

She turned to Abuka.

“I gave you everything. My heart, my time, my body, and now my child. I stood by you when others doubted you. I defended you when people warned me. And still, you laughed behind my back with another woman.”

She looked around at everyone.

“But I will not cry. Not here. Not today. Today I choose myself.”

Then she turned and looked directly at Linda, who had been forced to sit down in shame.

“Blood should protect, not betray,” Kyoma said. “You weren’t just my cousin. You were my friend, my sister—and you knew everything. Still, you did this.”

Linda lowered her head.

Kyoma turned back to the pastor with respect. “Sir, this wedding cannot continue.”

The pastor nodded slowly. “It is your right.”

Kyoma took a deep breath, held her belly again, and looked straight into the camera one last time.

“I may walk out of here alone, but I walk out whole. Not broken. Not ashamed. I am still a bride—just not to a liar.”

And then, with the mic in her hand, she walked down the aisle once more.

But this time, the guests stood and clapped. One by one, the sound grew louder, faster, stronger. A few women wiped their eyes. Some whispered prayers.

Even the choir joined in, singing softly as she passed: “I am strong, I am brave, I am rising today.”

Outside, the media had arrived. A reporter rushed forward.

“Miss Kyoma, are you still going to marry Mr. Abuka?”

Kyoma looked straight at the camera and said, “I came here in a wedding dress, but I leave in my power.”

She entered the car. Her father followed.

“Let’s go home, daughter.”

The door closed. The engine started. The crowd stood back. And slowly, the car drove off—leaving behind flowers, decorations, and a ruined groom.

Back in the church, Abuka collapsed into the front pew. His mother was pacing beside him.

“I warned you about women like Linda, didn’t I?”

Abuka rubbed his face. “Mommy, I didn’t know it would go this far.”

She shouted, “Didn’t know? So you thought she would never find out? With her brains? You think all women are fools?”

A church elder came to them. “Please leave this place. This is God’s house, not a place for shame.”

Mrs. Mardu helped Abuka to his feet. They walked out with their heads low.

Linda was nowhere to be found. Somehow, she had managed to escape during the commotion. But her name would not escape people’s lips for many months to come.

Later that evening, Kyoma sat on her bed barefoot. Her dress was folded beside her. Her hair was loosed. Her makeup was half wiped.

Her body was tired—but her eyes, her eyes were alive.

She held her belly gently and spoke softly, “It’s just you and me now. We’re going to be okay.”

Her phone buzzed. It was her godfather, Uncle Ia. She picked up.

“Kyoma,” his deep voice came. “I’ve spoken with my people. My investment in Abuka’s business is withdrawn. His accounts will freeze in two days.”

Kyoma nodded. “Thank you.”

He paused. “And I’m proud of you. You did what most women fear to do. You stood up.”

Kyoma smiled faintly. “I had no choice.”

“No,” he said. “You had a choice. And you chose yourself.”

She ended the call. Then she looked at the wedding invitation still pinned on her wall. She took it down slowly and dropped it in the trash.

The next morning, Kyoma opened her eyes slowly. For a second, the room felt strange. Quiet. Still. No decorators rushing around. No aunties shouting from the backyard. No loud gospel music.

Just silence.

She sat up in bed and rubbed her stomach gently. Her baby kicked once, like a reminder that she wasn’t alone.

Her gown from the day before was hanging quietly by the door, no longer glowing. The bouquet had already been taken apart and thrown in the trash. Her veil lay crumpled on the chair.

She had walked out of her wedding yesterday. And today, the world would know.

Kyoma picked up her phone. Ten missed calls from Abuka. Fourteen from Linda. Messages were pouring in nonstop.

She opened Instagram. Her name was trending:

#KyomaTheBrave
#Room712
#TheAltarBombshell

Someone had posted a video of her speech at the church, and it had already crossed over 200,000 views.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry—but she felt one thing clearly. Peace.

In a hotel across town, Abuka sat on the edge of a bed, his head in his hands. His eyes were red and swollen. He hadn’t slept.

His phone buzzed again—another call from his lawyer. He ignored it. Then came a message:

Your investor has officially withdrawn all funds. Your company’s accounts are frozen. We need to meet now.

Abuka groaned. “How did everything fall apart in one day?” he whispered to himself.

His business was in trouble. His wedding was ruined. His reputation was burnt to ashes.

And Linda had stopped answering his calls since last night.

He stood up and paced around the room. He wanted to scream.

Later that afternoon, he finally gathered courage and called Kyoma again. This time, she picked.

“Hello,” her voice came.

“Kyoma,” he said, sounding tired. “Please, can we talk—”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“I know I hurt you. I know I destroyed everything. But please, I didn’t plan any of this to happen.”

“You’re right,” she said quietly. “You didn’t plan for it to come out. You planned to lie. To use me. To take everything.”

“I swear, Kyoma, I never meant to use you.”

“Then why did you say it? Why did you laugh about me with another woman the night before our wedding?”

“I… I was drunk. I was confused. I was stressed.”

“Save it.”

There was silence. Then Kyoma continued, “I carried your child. I trusted you with my life. And you gave your body to my cousin. You planned a future where you controlled me like property. I was scared.”

“Okay,” he said, his voice cracking. “I didn’t feel ready for marriage. I didn’t know how to say it. I thought maybe if we just went through with it, I’d grow into it.”

“You should have told me. Not betray me.”

“Please, Kyoma. I’m losing everything. People are backing out of my deals. My clients are canceling contracts. My face is all over social media.”

“You’re only sorry because the world saw it.”

He paused. “So… you’re done?”

“Yes,” she said. “I’m done.”

Before he could say another word, she ended the call.

Back at Kyoma’s house, her living room was filled with family. Aunties, uncles, cousins. Everyone had heard what happened. Some looked at her with pity. Others looked at her with pride.

Her father stood up and cleared his throat. “My daughter has gone through something many women would not survive. She stood her ground. She exposed the truth. And I support her.”

Everyone nodded.

Her mother wiped a tear. “We raised her well.”

One aunt leaned forward. “Kyoma, what do you plan to do now?”

Kyoma looked up. “I plan to raise my child. I plan to heal. I plan to never let any man like Abuka near my life again.”

They all clapped.

At the same time, Linda sat in her own parents’ house. Her face red from crying. Her father was shouting. Her mother refused to speak.

“You have destroyed this family’s name,” her father said. “You brought shame—sleeping with your cousin’s fiancé on the night before her wedding.”

“I didn’t mean to—” Linda began.

“Shut up!” he shouted. “You’re no longer welcome at any family gathering. Do you understand me?”

She nodded, crying harder.

“If your cousin never forgives you, don’t blame her. You deserve everything coming to you.”

Abuka’s day got worse. His lawyer called again. This time, he had to answer.

“Abuka, your accounts are under review. Your main investor—Kyoma’s godfather—has pulled out all his money. And with the press damage, none of the new investors want to move forward.”

“What are you saying?” Abuka asked, sweating.

“I’m saying you need to close down operations until we figure out what’s left.”

Abuka fell back into his chair. All his dreams were gone.

All because of one night.

Back on social media, Kyoma’s video continued to spread. People started sending her messages:

“You’re our hero.”
“God bless you for standing up for yourself.”
“You just saved a thousand women who needed strength.”

She didn’t reply to any of them. But she read every word.

Then she got a message from a woman named Nosi.

It read: Hi Kyoma. I watched your video. My husband has been cheating on me for years. I stayed quiet. But yesterday, when I saw you walk out of that church with your head high, I packed my things and left. Thank you for reminding me that I matter.

Kyoma read the message twice. Then she sat back and smiled faintly.

She was making more than noise. She was making a difference.

The next day, she visited her doctor. Her baby was healthy. Heartbeat strong. Growth perfect.

The doctor smiled. “You’re doing well. Your baby is strong.”

Kyoma smiled too. “So am I.”

On her way out, someone stopped her in the hallway.

“Are you Kyoma?” the woman asked.

“Yes.”

The woman hugged her. “Thank you.”

Kyoma blinked. “Do I know you?”

“No,” the woman said. “But I know what you did—and I’m proud.”

At home, Kyoma began writing. She had an idea: a blog, a safe space for women who had been hurt, betrayed, or left behind.

She called it The Bride Who Walked.

She wrote her first post: I wore a white gown, but I didn’t marry shame. I walked—and that was the best decision of my life.

Soon, more women started sharing their stories. It grew faster than she imagined. And with every story, she healed more. Not just herself—but others too.

One week later, Abuka tried to visit. He came to her gate, flowers in hand.

The gateman didn’t even open the gate. Kyoma had left instructions: if Abuka ever showed up, he wasn’t to be let in.

Abuka stood outside for over an hour. Then he dropped the flowers on the floor and walked away.

Kyoma saw the footage later from the security camera. She shook her head and whispered, “It’s too late.”

That night, she sat with her father in the living room. He turned off the TV and looked at her.

“I never told you this,” he said. “But when your mother and I first married, she found out I was talking to someone else.”

Kyoma raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He nodded. “She didn’t walk away. But she should have. She forgave me. And I changed. But I still wish she had made me sweat first.”

Kyoma laughed a little. “So you’re saying I did the right thing?”

“You did what many women are afraid to do. You ended the pain before it could grow roots.”

Kyoma looked down. “Sometimes I still feel like crying.”

“Then cry,” her father said. “But cry because you’re free, not because you lost anything. Because, believe me, you didn’t lose a man. He lost you.”

Kyoma nodded slowly. And that night, she cried—but only once.

By the end of the week, Kyoma was invited to speak at a women’s group. The hall was packed. Women from different places came just to hear her.

She stood on stage, mic in hand, wearing a blue gown with white patterns. Her stomach was bigger now, but she looked proud.

She spoke slowly. “I’m not here because I’m perfect. I’m here because I broke and stood again. And I want you to know: no matter what anyone has done to you—you are not weak. You are not small. You are not shame.”

The women clapped. She continued.

“The white gown doesn’t make you a bride. Your dignity does. And if the man standing beside you doesn’t honor you—walk.”

More claps. Some women cried.

Kyoma stepped off the stage with applause following her like a song.

In a small bar that same evening, Abuka sat alone at a table, staring at his drink. His phone buzzed again. A news site had posted a new article:

Kyoma launches foundation to support betrayed pregnant women.

The title made him feel sick. He dropped his phone.

Someone at the next table whispered, “Isn’t that the guy from room 712?”

Abuka got up and walked out.

The door closed behind him.

Three days after Kyoma’s wedding crash, the internet hadn’t stopped talking. News blogs, gossip pages, even radio shows were all carrying the story:

Pregnant bride walks out of wedding after playing secret hotel recording.
Room 712: The tape that broke the altar.
Kyoma trends as a symbol of strength for African women.

Everywhere Kyoma went, people pointed at her, whispered, or tried to say hello. Some offered hugs. Some handed her letters of encouragement. She wasn’t just the girl who walked away from the altar anymore. She was becoming a name.

But Kyoma wasn’t looking for fame. She was looking for healing. She didn’t care about becoming famous. All she wanted was peace—for herself and her unborn child.

She had cut her phone off for a day to rest her mind. When she turned it back on, her inbox had over four hundred unread messages. Some from strangers, some from journalists, some even from churches asking her to come and share testimony.

But the message that caught her eye was from a woman named Ada.

It read: You don’t know me, but you saved me. I was in an abusive marriage, afraid to leave because of shame. But after I watched your video, I left with my child. You gave me courage. Thank you.

Kyoma held the phone close to her chest and sat still for a while. Then she whispered, “Maybe that’s why it happened.”

That morning, she sat in the garden behind her house watching birds hop around on the ground. Her mother came outside with a tray of hot tea and bread.

“Mama,” Kyoma said gently, “you don’t have to bring me food every time.”

“I know,” Mama replied, placing the tray down. “But it gives me joy to feed you. And you need your strength now more than ever.”

Kyoma took the cup of tea. “Thank you.”

They sat quietly for a while. Then Mama asked, “Have you spoken to Abuka since?”

“No,” Kyoma said. “I blocked his number.”

“Good.”

Kyoma raised her eyebrows. “You really think so?”

Her mother nodded. “I forgave your father once for cheating. It nearly destroyed me. I smiled in front of people, but I was dying inside. I stayed for the sake of appearances. I won’t let my daughter do the same.”

Kyoma looked down. “It still hurts, Mama.”

“It will. For a while,” Mama said softly. “But the pain will go, just like labor pain. It feels like death, but after the child is born, joy returns.”

Kyoma smiled a little. “I hope so.”

Later that day, Kyoma received a call from an unknown number. She almost didn’t pick, but something made her answer.

“Hello?”

The voice on the line was calm. “Good afternoon, Kyoma. My name is Mrs. Ephinoa. I run the Grace Women’s Center.”

“Good afternoon,” Kyoma said politely.

“I watched your video,” the woman continued. “And I’ve followed what you’ve done since. We’d love to invite you to speak to a group of young women. They’ve been through betrayal, abuse, heartbreak. They need someone like you.”

Kyoma hesitated. “I’m not a speaker,” she said.

“You are now,” the woman replied gently.

Kyoma thought for a moment. “Okay. I’ll come.”

The next Saturday, Kyoma stood inside a small hall with plastic chairs and standing fans. About twenty-five women were seated—some old, some young. A few had babies in their laps.

Kyoma wore a simple blue gown. Her baby bump was showing clearly now. She held the microphone slowly and looked around the room.

“I’m not here to talk like a celebrity,” she began. “I’m just a woman who almost gave her whole life to the wrong person.”

The room was silent. She continued.

“I believed love was enough. I believed loyalty was enough. But I forgot to believe in myself.”

The women listened closely.

“I wore the dress. I walked the aisle. But I walked out—because peace is better than a fake marriage.”

A few people nodded.

“I’m not ashamed of walking away. I’m proud. Because sometimes the strongest thing you can do is say no.”

When she finished, the women clapped. Some had tears in their eyes. A few rushed forward to hug her.

One woman said, “I haven’t smiled in two months. You just reminded me that I’m still alive.”

Another whispered, “I wish I had your courage ten years ago.”

That day, Kyoma didn’t just speak. She connected. She healed a part of herself she didn’t know needed healing.

Back at home, her father watched a video of the event on his phone.

“Hey,” he muttered to himself. “My daughter is becoming a public figure.”

His friend, Mr. Emma, sat beside him. “She deserves it. She did what no one expected. She exposed that boy and walked out with dignity.”

“True,” her father nodded. “But I hope it doesn’t become too much.”

Mr. Emma asked, “Has Abuka tried to come again?”

“No,” the father said. “And if he does, I’ll be waiting at the gate myself.”

They both laughed.

Meanwhile, Abuka sat in a dark office flipping through papers. His assistant had quit two days earlier. His lawyer was avoiding him. Most of his staff had already packed up and left.

His once-bright company was now empty.

A knock came at the door.

“Come in,” he said.

A man walked in. “Sir, they’ve taken the delivery van.”

Abuka looked up slowly. “Which van?”

“The Toyota. The company we leased it from sent people to collect it.”

Abuka nodded. “Okay.”

The man turned to leave but paused. “Sir, can I be honest?”

Abuka looked up.

The man spoke quietly. “You ruined everything. We were building something good. Then you let your ego destroy it.”

Abuka didn’t reply.

The man left.

Abuka sat there alone, the walls around him closing in slowly.

In another corner of town, Linda sat in her room scrolling through comments on her Instagram page.

Homewrecker. Disgrace to women. You deserve every bit of this.

She had turned off comments, but the messages kept coming.

She hadn’t gone outside since the wedding. Her family refused to let her attend gatherings. Her mother hadn’t spoken to her in a week.

She tried calling Abuka again. No answer.

She left a message. “Abuka, I’m suffering too. Everyone is blaming me. You said we’d figure things out. Please call me.”

She dropped the phone and cried into her pillow. But no one came.

Meanwhile, Kyoma had begun writing—not just blogs anymore, but full letters to women who messaged her. She printed them, signed them, and mailed them one by one.

Her blog The Bride Who Walked now had over twenty thousand followers. She shared simple stories, real stories. And women replied with theirs.

One day, she got a message from a seventeen-year-old girl named Peace.

My uncle has been abusing me for months. I was afraid to speak out. But after reading your story, I told my aunt. She took me away. Thank you for giving me the push.

Kyoma wiped her eyes. She knew now that what had broken her was helping others heal.

And that was bigger than anything she had lost.

One evening, she stood in front of a mirror, rubbing coconut oil on her belly. Her best friend Udu was on a video call.

“So you’re really not going to date again?” Udu asked.

Kyoma laughed. “I didn’t say that. I’m just saying I’m not looking.”

“Well, the way these men are moving online—they’re looking for you.”

“Let them keep looking,” Kyoma said. “I’m focusing on me, on this baby, on my peace.”

Udu smiled. “You’re glowing, girl.”

Kyoma smiled too. “It’s the peace.”

That night, she went to bed early. But before closing her eyes, she whispered to her unborn child:

“I want you to know you were never a mistake. You are the best thing that came from the worst moment. I will protect you. And I’ll show you what it means to be strong.”

The room was quiet. The fan turned slowly. And for the first time in weeks, Kyoma slept deeply. No nightmares. No tears. Only rest.

The small signboard that once read Abuka Solutions Limited had fallen halfway off the wall. The office windows were dusty. The reception area—once full of life—was now empty.

Abuka walked into the office building slowly, carrying a brown envelope under his arm. He didn’t look like the same man from three weeks ago. His beard was rough. His shirt was wrinkled. His shoes had dust on them.

He stood in front of what used to be his private office and turned the handle. The door opened, but the desk inside was already covered with a white cloth. Someone had started clearing out.

He dropped the envelope on the desk, then sat on the chair and looked around. Everything was gone—his staff, his investors, his clients. Even the laptop he used daily had been taken by the leasing company.

The only thing left in that office now was silence.

Earlier that week, his final investor had called him.

“Abuka, we can’t continue,” the man said firmly. “Your name is bad for business right now.”

“I know, sir,” Abuka replied. “But please, just give me one month. I can fix things.”

“It’s not about fixing things. It’s about trust. And right now, nobody trusts you.”

The call ended. That was the third call like that in one week.

After the viral wedding video, more than five major clients pulled out of their contracts. Two real estate firms canceled meetings. One of their suppliers refused to work with them anymore.

It wasn’t just business that collapsed. It was Abuka’s image. And he didn’t know how to rebuild it.

At night, he returned to his parents’ house in the village. He had no more money to stay in hotels. His mother, Mrs. Mardu, opened the gate and sighed when she saw him.

“So now you’re back,” she said without smiling.

Abuka nodded.

She looked him up and down. “I told you. I told you women like Linda would ruin you. But you thought you were smart.”

Abuka entered the house quietly. “Mama, please. I’m tired.”

“I’m tired too,” she shouted. “Tired of seeing my son disgraced all over the internet. What were you thinking?”

He didn’t answer.

She continued, “Your cousin came here two days ago crying. You won’t marry her. You ruined Kyoma’s life. And now you want to ruin mine too?”

Abuka sank into the chair. “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he said softly.

His mother threw her hands in the air. “But it happened.” Then she walked away and slammed the door behind her.

Linda was not doing any better. Her family had cut her off. Her friends had stopped replying to her messages. Even her workplace suspended her after her name kept trending for the wrong reasons.

She sat alone in her room, scrolling through her phone. Comment after comment:

You’re the reason some women never trust female friends.
Kyoma gave you a home, and you gave her betrayal.
Shame on you, Linda.

She threw the phone on the bed and cried. She tried calling Abuka again. Still no answer.

She sent a text: I know we made a mistake, but you promised me something real. Please don’t leave me too.

No reply.

She sat on the floor, hugging her knees.

Back in town, Kyoma was resting on her couch when her friend Udu visited.

“Kyoma, you need to see this,” Udu said, holding out her phone.

Kyoma looked up. “What?”

Udu showed her a news post: Abuka’s company closes doors after weeks of scandal.

Kyoma took the phone and read the article slowly. She handed it back. “I’m not surprised.”

Udu sat down beside her. “People are saying you destroyed him.”

Kyoma turned her head. “I didn’t destroy him. He destroyed himself.”

“True,” Udu nodded. “But still… it must feel strange.”

Kyoma looked at her belly. “It feels like justice.”

They both sat in silence for a while. Then Udu smiled. “You know, some men have been asking me if you’re single.”

Kyoma laughed softly. “Tell them to rest. I’m still healing.”

“Fair enough,” Udu said. “But they’re serious.”

“Oh?”

“One of them said he’d wait until after you give birth.”

Kyoma smiled again but said nothing.

That evening, she received a message from someone she hadn’t spoken to in a long time—Abuka’s younger sister, Camsy.

The message said: Kyoma, I know my brother failed you. I know you have no reason to speak to anyone from our family. But I just want to say thank you. You did the right thing, and I wish you peace.

Kyoma stared at the message for a while. Then she replied: Thank you, Camsy. That means a lot.

The next day, Kyoma sat in a café with a woman named Auntie Neca. She was a popular women’s rights advocate and had been following Kyoma’s journey online.

“Kyoma,” she said, stirring her tea. “Do you know what you’ve started?”

Kyoma smiled a little. “No. I just did what I had to do.”

“You started a movement,” Auntie Neca said. “You gave women a new way to see themselves—not as victims, but as voices.”

Kyoma lowered her eyes. “It still feels strange.”

“It should,” Auntie Neca said. “Change always feels strange. But it’s needed.”

They talked for an hour. And before leaving, the woman said, “If you ever want to work with us, speak for us, fight with us—you have a place.”

Kyoma nodded. “Thank you. I’ll think about it.”

Two nights later, Abuka stood outside Kyoma’s house. He had nothing in his hands—no flowers, no gift. Just himself. He looked thinner. His eyes were dull.

He knocked gently on the gate. The gateman opened and frowned.

“Who are you?”

“Tell her it’s Abuka.”

The man narrowed his eyes. “She left strict orders. If you ever show up, I shouldn’t open the gate.”

“Please,” Abuka said. “Just tell her I’m outside. For the last time.”

The gateman closed the gate and walked away.

Inside the house, Kyoma was folding baby clothes when the gateman came in.

“Madam,” he said. “That man is here again. The one from the wedding.”

She paused. “Abuka?”

“Yes, madam. He says he wants to talk—just once.”

Kyoma looked down. She stood still for a full minute. Then she said, “Let him in.”

Abuka entered slowly, removing his shoes at the door. He stood in the living room, unsure if he should sit or stand.

Kyoma walked in calmly, holding a small cup of water. She sat down. “What do you want?”

Abuka cleared his throat. “I just came to say sorry. In person. No begging. No stories. Just sorry.”

Kyoma looked at him.

He continued, “You didn’t deserve what I did. Not one bit. And if I could go back, I’d undo it. But I can’t. So I just wanted to say it to your face.”

Kyoma nodded slowly. “Thank you.”

Abuka stood there for a few more seconds. Then he turned to leave. As he reached the door, Kyoma spoke again.

“Abuka.”

He stopped.

“I forgave you a long time ago,” she said. “Not for you, but for me.”

He looked at her. “Thank you.”

Then he left. And that was the last time she ever saw him.

Two months passed. The wedding that never happened had faded from the news. Other stories had taken over the internet. But Kyoma’s name still lived in the hearts of many.

She was no longer called the bride who was betrayed. Now they called her the woman who chose herself.

Her blog The Bride Who Walked had grown into a real organization. With the help of her godfather and a few kind-hearted supporters, she opened a small office in town. A clean space with white walls, three chairs, and a banner on the wall that read: You are not weak. You are walking away from what was never yours.

She wasn’t doing it for attention. She was doing it because something inside her had changed forever.

Every week, she sat with women who came in quietly, their eyes filled with pain. She listened. She shared her story when it helped. She cried with them when the silence became too heavy. And in every single one of them, she saw herself.

One afternoon, a young girl came into the office. She wore slippers too big for her feet and held a baby that looked less than one year old. Her face was dry. Her hair was rough.

Kyoma stood and smiled warmly. “You’re welcome, my dear. Sit.”

The girl didn’t speak for a few seconds. Then she said, “I don’t know where to go.”

Kyoma reached for her hand. “You’ve already come to the right place.”

The girl burst into tears. And that was how Kyoma knew—this wasn’t just about her anymore. This was bigger.

At home, her belly had grown. Her baby kicked often now. Her mother rubbed her back every evening. Her father made pepper soup on weekends and even learned how to fold baby clothes. They were waiting for a new life.

And for the first time in years, the house felt full of joy.

Udu came over with two bags full of baby gifts. “I know you said no gifts, but please don’t shout. I couldn’t help myself.”

Kyoma laughed. “You’ll spoil this child before she arrives.”

Udu sat beside her. “Speaking of arrival… are you scared?”

Kyoma paused. “A little. But I’m ready.”

Udu looked serious. “Have you decided what to name her?”

Kyoma smiled. “Yes. Her name will be Amarachi.”

Udu smiled wide. “God’s grace.”

“Yes,” Kyoma nodded. “Because that’s what she is.”

The night labor began, it was raining heavily. Kyoma was in her room folding towels when a sharp pain pulled her forward. She grabbed the chair beside her and breathed hard.

Her mother rushed in. “It’s time.”

Kyoma nodded. “Call the driver. We have to go.”

Within minutes, they were in the car speeding toward the hospital. Her father sat beside her, holding her hand tightly.

“You’re strong. Just breathe.”

The pain came in waves. She held her belly and whispered softly to her unborn child: “We made it, you and me.”

At the hospital, the nurses rushed her into the delivery room. The lights were bright. The bed felt cold. But her heart was steady.

The nurse, a young woman named Bi, smiled and said, “You’re doing great, madam. Just a little more.”

Kyoma gritted her teeth and pushed.

And after hours of pain, sweat, and silent prayers, a loud cry filled the room.

“It’s a girl,” the nurse said happily.

Kyoma closed her eyes and breathed out. Tears rolled down her cheeks.

When they placed the baby in her arms, she felt something she had never felt before. Not just love—but purpose.

The baby looked up at her, tiny and innocent. And in that moment, nothing else mattered. Not the wedding that failed. Not the man who left. Not the past. Only this child. Amarachi.

Word spread quickly. Kyoma has given birth was heard everywhere. People sent messages, gifts, prayers. Even Pastor Ben sent a letter:

You may not have stood before the altar. But you have walked into something greater. May God bless you and your daughter.

Kyoma read the letter and smiled.

One week later, while nursing her baby under a tree in their compound, her father brought a newspaper to her.

“Your story made front page again.”

Kyoma looked at the paper. The headline read:

From broken bride to bold mother: the story of Kyoma and baby Amarachi.

She laughed. “They’ll soon get tired.”

Her father smiled. “Not when they’re watching a queen rise.”

As the weeks passed, Kyoma continued her work. She went back to the office with Amarachi in a small carrier. Everyone who visited wanted to hold the baby. But Kyoma made it clear:

“You can hold her if your hands are clean and your heart is kind.”

She started writing again. Her new book was titled The Vows I Kept for Myself. It became a small bestseller within its first week online.

Then one day she was invited to speak at a university conference. She stood on stage, Amarachi asleep on her chest. The hall was full—students, lecturers, mothers, even a few fathers.

She held the mic and looked at the crowd.

“My name is Kyoma. I was supposed to be someone’s wife, but I chose to be something better—myself.”

The audience clapped.

“I was pregnant, in love, and blind. But I saw the truth in time, and I walked away. That walk changed my life.”

She paused, holding the mic close.

“Walking away doesn’t make you weak. It means you understand your worth. Never be afraid to walk when you’re not respected where you stand.”

The hall stood. Everyone clapped. Some shouted her name. Some cried.

Meanwhile, far away, Abuka watched the video on his phone. He sat on a plastic chair in a one-room apartment. No more office. No more car. No more attention. Just regret.

He paused the video halfway and looked out the window. He knew he had lost more than just a wedding. He had lost the kind of woman people write books about.

And this time, no amount of begging would bring her back.

At night, Kyoma lay in bed beside Amarachi, who was now three months old. She watched her baby sleep peacefully and smiled.

She picked up her phone and opened her blog.

The newest message read: Dear Kyoma, I was about to end my life last month, but your story gave me something to live for. Thank you.

She placed the phone down slowly, wiped her eyes, and whispered, “Thank you, God.”

Then she kissed her daughter on the forehead and said, “You saved me, my child. Now I will spend my life saving others.”

The moonlight touched the room softly.

A new chapter had begun. And this time—it wasn’t about weddings.