Shadows of a Promised Marriage, the Sad Story of Mariama

My name is Mariama; Mary to those close to me. I’m the youngest of five siblings, Peul from Guinea through my father and Wolof from Senegal through my mother. I was twenty-three when my story truly began. It’s not a simple one, but I’m going to tell it anyway, and I’d love to hear your thoughts. I had just passed my architecture exams with honors. After five years of intense stress and constant pressure, I was finally a graduate. “Chouchou! It’s done; thank God, I passed!” I called Omar Diallo, my big cousin, the one I’d been promised to since childhood. “Congratulations, beauty; it was a sure thing, you’re the best!” he replied warmly. Omar wasn’t the type to force anything. From the start, he made it clear: no marriage until I finished my studies, and only if I truly wanted it, with no doubts in my heart. He was educated, open to Western culture, a chartered accountant at a major publicly listed company; his parents’ pride and joy. A marriage to him? Why not. It would be a marriage of convenience rather than a forced arrangement. Men had never really interested me; I was too focused on my studies. Apparently I have all the features of a “true Peul” (thanks, Dad; I look just like him), and heads turn, but I never cared. I watched my friends cry rivers over boys and swore I’d never go through that. With Omar, I was lucky: handsome, hardworking, kind, attentive, and family. You know how important traditions are among the Peul… Back home, announcing my degree sparked pure joy. My mother organized a huge sadaka in the neighborhood to share her happiness; she was so proud of her “Thiatt,” the baby of the family. And thank God, my siblings were no slouches either: Hamady, 29, a dynamic executive in advertising; Adji, 27, financial advisor at a bank; the twins Hawa and Adam, 25; one training as a midwife, the other doing her medical internship in Paris. Intelligence runs deep in the Diallo family. A few weeks later, I joined the firm where I’d done my final internship in Paris. I loved the atmosphere, and the boss truly valued my work. Things with Omar were smooth as silk. He planned to officially ask for my hand; a formality since our fathers are brothers from the same father. On the big day, I was inexplicably nervous. My sisters teased me mercilessly. When the question came, I said a firm “YES.” The religious and traditional wedding was set for one month later, giving everyone time to prepare; because you know how the mamas are: everything has to be perfect. The wedding day was magical from start to finish. I let the mamas handle everything and celebrated with a few friends at my brother’s place. Omar did the same. After Asr prayer, Adam burst in excitedly: “That’s it; you’re officially Mrs. Diallo in the eyes of men and God!” My heart raced. Omar called, beaming: “I’m so happy… See you tonight.” That evening, dressed in traditional attire with ancestral braids, I was escorted to his home. My pulse thundered. Omar waited, elegant and smiling. We talked late into the night, laughing about childhood memories. Then, gently, he took me in his arms. Our first night was tender and exploratory; not fireworks, but real connection. For the first time, I felt genuine pleasure, and it surprised me. Omar was patient, caring. “I’ve loved you forever,” he whispered. The months that followed felt like a dream. We lived in a beautiful Paris apartment. Omar cooked for me, surprised me with flowers, took me on trips. In bed, we were passionate and playful. I got pregnant quickly; our daughter, our joy. But pregnancy changed everything. Nausea, exhaustion, and a growing distance. Omar became irritable, withdrawn. “It’s just the hormones,” I told myself. Then came Amayel. I learned; by chance; that she was his ex, a distant cousin, and they had a son together before our marriage. Omar had hidden it, afraid of judgment. “It was before you,” he swore. But jealousy ate at me. Arguments, silences. Our intimacy faded; he came home late, claiming work. I withdrew, focusing on the baby. Our daughter arrived, a ray of light. But the house had become a battlefield. Omar spent time at Amayel’s “to see his son.” I left our little girl with my mother as much as possible to shield her. At work, I took on more responsibility; my boss left for a Gulf project to save the company and entrusted me with running everything. I worked like crazy, coming home at impossible hours, avoiding Omar. One night my laptop crashed while I was finishing a crucial file. I borrowed Omar’s; he wasn’t home, as usual; and it was already on, no password needed. I finished my work… then curiosity took over. I checked his MSN, his emails. Mostly work. Then I found a recent conversation with Amayel: Amayel: “Last night with you did me so much good. You always know the right words to calm me. I hope one day you can forgive me for all the pain I caused you; at least for our son!” Whoever searches finds. Whoever finds must face the truth. The nights that followed were hell. Omar forced intimacy; I submitted without feeling anything; no pleasure, no desire. It became a chore, almost torture. All his sweet words vanished like smoke. I lived only for my daughter and my job. I cut off friends, shut myself away more and more. I never asked to be married just to live like this. Honestly, it felt more like cohabitation than a real marriage. I didn’t want to subject my little girl to this; she’s young but understands a lot. So I left her with my mother most of the time; she practically lives there now. Omar hates it and only speaks to me to complain about it. He spends hours at Amayel’s supposedly to see “his son.” I say nothing. He’d accuse me of keeping our daughter from him, just like he claims I do. Today I wonder: Did I marry an illusion? Peul destiny brought us together, but secrets and silence tore us apart. I should have known that a promised love often hides shadows. And now? I’m searching for the strength to rebuild; for her, for me.