The buzzing of his phone indicated there was a new ride request. Koye smiled at the rhyme, he prayed that the day would turn out beautifully. He confirmed the ride immediately and drove to the passenger’s location. He knew the area well, High Hills Estate, an uptown estate with big houses, old money; the kind of place where decisions were made long before they were spoken aloud. He parked at the gate of the regal looking house waiting for the passenger. It turned out to be two people, a middle-aged chocolate skinned woman and a dark lady in her early twenties who resembled her very much.
“Good morning!” Koye greeted heartily.
They opened the doors to the back seat and sat down as far as they could from each other. An argument must have ensued before they entered the car so neither responded to his greeting. The air between them was as tight as a fabric pulled too far.
The older woman said, “You know Kings Plaza, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do, Ma’am,” he replied, looking at her through the rear-view mirror, wondering what was eating at her, she looked so bothered.
“Alaba, are you ready?” she asked the younger lady, eyes scanning her from head to toe; the look was not unkind but neither was it soft.
The young lady rolled her eyes, pulled her phone out of her purse, and said, “Do I need to be? It’s not like what we are doing is about me!” She adjusted the sleeve of her blouse and said mockingly, “It’s about the coming together of two beautiful families”.
Her mother paused. “What are you trying to say?”
Alaba shrugged. “Mom, I’ve been saying the same thing since last month but you all have refused to listen so I’ve decided to stand as an onlooker in my own life and let you people decide everything.”
After a small silence, the mother said “Don’t start this again. You love Yusuf; it is not our decision!”
Koye quietly pulled into traffic, glancing briefly at them again through the rear-view mirror; despite the argument, the mother looked composed and wrapped in authority like a second gele. Alaba was well-dressed but looked restless, barely hiding her anger and frustration as her fingers traced invisible patterns on her handbag.
He had carried mother-daughter pairs like this several times and often, the conversation was either too loud or too quiet. This one was probably going to be one of the loudest, judging by the way they were starting out.
It was a bit quiet so he cautiously asked, “Would you like some music?”
Simultaneously, both of them responded: “No,” said the mother, while her daughter said “Yes.”
Alaba glared at her mother and said through her teeth, “I would like to listen to music. R&B if you have it.”
Koye caught the mother’s look of resignation through the rear-view mirror and said quickly trying to lessen the tension “I don’t have that but I can find you some soft jazz”.
Surprisingly, this time, their response was in unison. Koye was so glad he could finally get them to agree on something, so he turned his radio on and the journey continued.
After a few minutes, the mother said, “You didn’t greet your aunt properly yesterday.”
Alaba exhaled slowly and said resignedly, “I greeted her.”
“You only said good evening and walked away. Is that how to greet your father’s sister? How will you greet your husband’s mothers after you get married?”
“What else should I have done?” Alaba asked, her voice calm but thin. “Kneel down and recite a poem? And by the way, I’ve told you to stop calling Yusuf’s sisters his mothers.”
Her mother turned to her. “Don’t be disrespectful.”
“I’m not being disrespectful, Mom. I’m just—” Alaba hesitated.
“Just what?” her mother interrupted.
Koye matched the break slightly as they approached a bump and almost missed her whispered response, “I’m just tired, Mom. Tired.”
The sound of quiet resignation hung in the air for a while as her mother’s expression shifted for just a moment before it quickly hardened again.
“Tired of what? We are preparing for your future and yet, you are tired?”
Alaba looked out the window. The roadside was alive with hawkers, schoolchildren, everyone going about the usual activities of a weekday afternoon. Life was going on; indifferent to Alaba’s personal crisis.
“I didn’t ask for all this,” she said quietly.
Her mother let out a short laugh. “Of course you didn’t. Children never do. That’s why parents think for them.”
Koye’s fingers tightened slightly on the steering wheel but he kept his eyes forward while listening intently.
“We are going to buy the aso-ebi today,” her mother continued, as if explaining something obvious. “Important people will be there; you cannot continue to look like we are preparing for a burial.” Alaba nodded faintly. “I understand.”
“I don’t think you do!” her mother said sharply. “Because your attitude is not showing any form of understanding.”
Alaba turned to her. “What attitude, Mom?”
“This one,” she said, gesturing vaguely. “This resistance; this questioning everything.”
Alaba almost smiled. “I didn’t know thinking was now a problem.”
“In this kind of situation, too much thinking can destroy a good thing.”
The taxi fell into an uneasy silence again and Koye almost said something but caught himself quickly; if he was supposed to contribute to the conversation, the opening would be clean and clear. He took a quick glance in the rear-view mirror again and caught Alaba’s eye for a split second. She looked away quickly but not before he could see the glint of uncertainty.
“Mom,” she said after a while, her voice softer now. “May I ask you something?”
Her mother put aside the phone she had taken out of her purse and looked at her daughter. “You are already asking.”
Alaba hesitated, then said, “Did you love Dad when you married him?” The question landed heavily. He heard the mother gasp and she didn’t answer immediately; instead, she looked out the window, her face unreadable.
Finally, she looked back at her daughter, now composed, and said, “That is not how things were done in our time. I respected your father,” her mother said at last. “That was enough.”
Alaba swallowed. “Was it, really? To be honest for once, I think you lived below your potential.”
Her mother’s voice sharpened. “It was more than enough. My respect built a home. It raised children. It gave me stability and that is more than enough use of my potential.”
“But was it enough for you?” Alaba pressed, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I was not unhappy,” her mother retorted quickly.
Koye turned into a quieter street as a detour to avoid a traffic jam. The noise of the main road faded and both women became quiet for a while.
When she finally decided to speak, Alaba sighed. “I don’t want to just be ‘not unhappy’,” she said.
Her mother sighed.
“You people of this generation,” she began, shaking her head. “Everything must be perfect, but let me warn you, this is how people make mistakes!”
“So ignoring your feelings is how people avoid them?” Alaba shot back.
Her mother turned sharply. “Do you think I don’t know what I’m doing?”
“I think you know what you were taught,” Alaba said. “But I don’t know if that is what I want.
“Yusuf is a good man,” her mother said, her voice firm now. “Let’s not forget that.”
“I haven’t forgotten, but a good man isn’t always the right man,” Alaba said, looking down at her hands. “You all have already started calling him ‘our husband’; do you know how that makes me feel?”
“It feels like your family accepts and loves the person who has asked for your hand in marriage,” her mother replied.
“No, it feels like I no longer have a choice.”
“You’ve always had a choice,” her mother said quickly.
Alaba laughed softly. “Really?”
“Yes.”
“And what happens if I say no?”
Her mother didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she looked at her phone as if checking the time. When she could no longer keep quiet, she asked, “Why would you say no?”
“You guys were not there when Yusuf and I discussed our future on the phone. You weren’t there when we went out together. I see how he treats people when he’s tired or under pressure.” She gave a heavy sigh and said “Mom, he wants a wife, but I want a partner. He needs a trophy to place regularly in his house. I need a friend, a confidant, someone I can trust to cheer me on when I’m winning and comfort me when I need it. I don’t think he’s the right man for me.”
A single tear slid down Alaba’s face as she quietly bared her heart to her mother.
“Why have you never said this before?” her mother said after a while, her voice lower now
Alaba shook her head. “I have been saying it, Mom, but you and Dad keep saying things will be okay after the wedding. You heard me but pushed my words aside; I think you are afraid.”
Her mother stiffened. “Afraid of what?”
“Of what people will say,” Alaba replied. “Of what it means if I choose differently, whether everything you believed still holds.”
Her mother’s lips parted slightly, then closed. “I am thinking of your future.”
“So am I,” Alaba whispered.
“And you think you know better?”
“I think I know what I can live with,” Alaba said.
They were close to their destination now.
The Kings Plaza was ahead, surrounded by bright fabrics hanging in windows, their colours clashing beautifully under the afternoon sun.
“Stop here,” her mother said suddenly.
Koye looked for a good place to park and pulled over, then he turned off the engine.
Neither of them moved immediately.
“This is where we will buy the aso-ebi,” her mother said, as if stating something final.
Alaba nodded and said “Yes.” But she didn’t reach for the door. Instead, she spoke again.
“Mom,” she said softly, “if I say no, will you still stand with me?”
Her mother looked at her and said quietly, “You are my daughter, but honestly, I don’t know what I would do.” The honesty was quiet.
“I guess I will have to stand alone then,” Alaba said, holding her mother’s gaze. “I want to be happy,” she said.
Her mother didn’t respond for a while then she looked up at Koye and said “Driver, please take us back home.”
“Yes, ma,” he replied quietly, trying to hide the peace and satisfaction that flooded his heart.
About the Author
Daniella Babalola is an educational psychologist and founder of the Royal Banner Learning Community, where she supports parents and educators in helping children and teenagers learn effectively and apply knowledge in real-life contexts. Her work explores identity formation, trauma, and the role of belief systems in shaping behaviour and life choices.
Her writing blends storytelling with psychological insight, creating narratives that are both engaging and reflective. She has a particular interest in trauma bonding and women’s experiences in emotionally complex relationships, explored in her ongoing project I Married My Father. Her other works include Empowered Conversations, a book on wholesome sex education, and the forthcoming You Are Seen.
The Bride in Transit is an excerpt from her upcoming collection, The Taxi Driver, which explores everyday moral and emotional crossroads.