A poor village girl was forced to marry a poor man, not knowing he was a billionaire. Adha only wanted a simple life, singing for her mother, tending the backyard, dreaming of true love. But her father, Bacheri, was a harsh man, stern, dry-spoken. His head always lowered, not out of humility, but shame, in debt to the village chief, a man feared more than respected.

Bachary decided to sell the only thing he had left, his daughter. To him, Adama wasn’t a life full of dreams, but merely a coin to wipe away his stained honor. And so, she was pushed into a forced marriage. No singing, no celebration, no joy. The groom, a mysterious, quiet man, always covered in dirt, whom no one really knew. To everyone, he was just another miserable farmer, as invisible as the dust on the road.

A dammer left with a buried heart, believing her dreams had died then and there. But without knowing, she was stepping into a story no one in the village would dare make up a story full of secrets. Silence and a truth so powerful it would turn the entire village upside down. A young woman sold as payment for a debt. A man hiding far more than dirt on his feet.

And a love that would be born where no one believed it could. And this is exactly where our story begins. On the day of the wedding, the sun seemed to mock Adam’s pain, shining high and burning the foreheads of the curious onlookers gathered at the entrance of the village. There were no drums, no songs, no laughter.

The air stood still, heavy, as if even the birds had chosen to respect the silent morning of that forced union. The cake was nothing more than a dry cornbread placed on a woven mat. The candles, old and crooked, barely stood upright. Beside them, a gourd filled with well water meant to bless the union. No one brought flowers.

No one brought songs. Children ran about kicking stones and laughing loudly. Unaware of the weight that had fallen onto Adhama’s slender shoulders. She wore a borrowed dress stained at the hem and a veil so thin it looked more like a cloth to wipe sweat.

Her eyes looked hollow, like a field scorched after a drought. There was no hope, no sparkle. Each step toward the man her father had chosen was like burying a piece of her heart. Mediva, the groom, stood still. He didn’t move his hands, scratched his face, or adjust his worn out shirt.

He just stared at the ground as if counting the ants that passed by, as if none of it had anything to do with him. The people began to whisper, “Those who marry without joy live without light.” An older woman murmured, “That girl will wither like a flower in the ashes.” When the village chief made the final gesture, raising a dry branch to seal, the yesadama felt her body tremble.

Her legs gave out for a moment, but she took a deep breath, remembering her mother’s face. Her father, arms crossed, watched from a distance, lips pressed tight to hide the fear that someone might dare to protest. To him, it was just another deal closed, a debt erased, a shame washed away with his daughter’s purity.

The few who had come out of obligation clapped their hands coldly, without rhythm, without soul. Each clap felt like a slap to a dharma’s face, a reminder that no one there saw her worth. No one cared about her heart, her dreams, the Sundays she spent singing to her mother around the fire, making up verses of hope.

After the ceremony, there was no music, only silence, spreading like dust in their shoes. The neighbors returned to their homes carrying empty pots, murmuring when the poor marry, not even

God sings, the men scattered, some laughing, others just shaking their heads. Certain the story would end in disgrace or abandonment. Adhama left with her head down, holding up the dress so she wouldn’t trip on the stones.