Your Marriage, Our Wedding!

“It’s my wedding, and it’s what I want that will pass,” Amara said, with no attempt to lower her voice or conceal her anger. Suddenly, there was a cold pause as both women stared at each other for a long minute. With tears welling up in her eyes and a shaky voice, Ekwutosi said, “alright, have it any way you like.” She motions towards the bedroom as her right shoulder brushes against Cynthia, just past the entrance to the corridor. A surprised Cynthia follows her and stops as Ekwutosi, with tears running down her face, closes the bedroom door as she raises the palm of her hand, a gesture to inform Cynthia that she would like to be left alone. A puzzled Cynthia, who had just returned from the market, stood in front of the closed door for a minute, listening to faint sobs coming from the other side. Cynthia knew at this point that if she wanted to find out what was going on, there was only one other person to speak with.

Moments later, Cynthia walks into the living room where Amara is seated and asks: “What did you say to your mum that has her so upset?” Amara rolls her eyes, barely concealing her disinterest, replies, “Don’t mind mummy and her drama. Can you imagine she brought a list with 50 extra names to be added to my wedding guest list? A list of people that I neither know, remember, nor care much for their presence.” Cynthia, wanting a more precise picture, asks Amara: so, what did you tell her?

Amara replies, “I told her to forget about it!” Placing her right index finger and thumb on the bridge of her nose, she closes her eyes and says, “What does she expect me to tell Chukwuebuka and his family? Would it be fair to them? What if…” Her voice trails off; pulling her hand from her face, she gets up and begins to pace the room. Cynthia watches her with a degree of bewilderment and concern. Amara starts to speak more to herself than Cynthia; “What if Chukwuebuka’s mother brings forward her own 50 names? Is mama even thinking about the cost? This is why eloping was a good idea; between the venues, travels to the village and back, invitations that went compulsorily with a bottle of wine, dresses, and the different asoebi”. Amara pauses in her tracks. As if hearing herself for the first time she raises her voice in anger as she speaks and turns to Cynthia, “the different asoebi, why are they so important and why do we need so many? At this rate, we won’t just max our budget. We would run ourselves bankrupt!” She begins to pace again, and this time starts to mumble, “Is it worth it? Is it worth it? Should we just run? We can run o!” Watching her niece spiral with a worrying daze in her eyes, Cynthia places her hands on Amara’s shoulders, guides her to sit on the couch, and tries to calm Amara down. After about a minute, Amara speaks in anger, “why are parents so difficult? This is selfish, no, wicked! Mama is not paying a kobo for this and thinks it fair to put this level of pressure on us; why? No, no, no… it is our wedding, and it is what we want that will fly. Did anyone force people on her when she got married? Chukwuebuka does not even want a big wedding, and quite frankly, neither do I. All this is pressure from family, it is wrong, and I will not be bullied. Mama is not even paying for this wedding. Is it from her sales in that tiny store that she expects to host 50 people? Someone with no money is dictating how I should go about my wedding.

Cynthia becoming miffed by Amara’s words, still standing, watching, and listening to her niece’s rant, but unsatisfied with the summary of events by Amara, asks her: “Do you have the list?”. “Yes,” Amara replies wishing for a change of subject. “Lemme see the list.” Amara reaches for a sheet of paper on the side stool and hands it to Cynthia. Cynthia skims through its contents, then lifting her gaze to Amara, she says, “You arrogant girl! Did you even go through this list or you dismissed it because of 50 names? Your mother is in there crying, and you can’t even give her the benefit of the doubt to understand what she was doing. Just so you know, I know every single person on this list, and I can categorically tell you our family owes each one a huge debt.” Feeling a need to defend herself, Amara speaks up; “Aunty, my wedding is not a form of currency. It cannot be my wedding that we will use to pay our family debts, talk more of debts that we owe to 50 people. By the way, how broke were we really? Fifty seems like a lot of people to borrow money from, and for what…” A frustrated Cynthia cuts her off and shouts, “Shut up! Shut up! Shut up! The debt we owe is you.”

Amara gives Cynthia a look that expresses confusion, shock, and fear all at the same time. Realizing how her last statement could be misconstrued, Cynthia takes a deep breath, sits next to Amara, and says in the most reassuring voice, “don’t worry, we did not sell you off, neither were you betrothed to anyone.” “Although I must say with all the trouble you have caused us, we have thought about it once or twice,” Cynthia says, tilting her head to the side comically; both women laugh. Returning her gaze to the list, she says in a reflective tone, “everyone on this list played a vital role in your well-being while you were growing up.” “Aunty, but I don’t under…” With a hand gesture, Cynthia tells Amara to stop speaking and says in a very calm voice, “keep quiet and listen. My darling, we are Nigerians and in this part of the world… no be one-person dey train pikin! It takes a village.”

Cynthia begins to point at each name on the list as she continues: “Mrs. Eno was a member of our church, who let you attend her primary school free of charge when we experienced lean times and could not afford school fees. Your father had just been buried then. Mrs. Eno was gracious enough to do this till we were back on our feet. The Obinwannes were an older couple that lived on our street. They ensured you attended a Federal Government College by transfer since you did not get in on merit from Junior Secondary School Class 1. The advantage of this was that federal secondary schools had professional teachers with sterling academic track records, yet they were very affordable. Schools like that had highly competitive admissions. The Obinwannes made sure your application was not overlooked. Alhaja Funmi Ajayi was heavily pregnant when you were four years old. The rains were so heavy that year that many properties were damaged. Madam Ajayi, as we fondly called her, used her car to go pick you up from school, braving the vicious flood. Saving us from whatever calamity that level of flooding could have caused. After that trip, her car stayed at the mechanics’ for two weeks. She never complained or charged us for damages.

Brother Arinze of blessed memory was our connection at the teaching hospital at Idiaraba. Whenever you were sick, he would find a way for us to get treatment from the specialist doctors promptly and at a minimal cost. Your mother penned the name of his first son, who is now a doctor at that same hospital.” Amara was wide-eyed with amazement as she said, “You mean, Doctor Arinze?” Cynthia responds with a knowing smile and an affirmative nod, “Arinze junior, to be exact.”

Pointing at the next name on the list, Cynthia continues: “Mallam Saidu and his wife were from the North, and back then, we were polite to them but kept our distance. They proved to us that we were being bigots. When you were eight years old, we lived at Shogunle. Your mother went out and left you in my care. I took my eyes off you for one minute, and the next thing, you vanished! I searched for you for 4 hours, no luck. Your mother came home, and we cried and prayed that God would deliver you to us, and He did. The Saidus brought you home. They said you were wandering the market at Oshodi, where they sold spices and herbs. My dear, this was the 90s when those gbomo gbomo incidents were rampant. Amara asked, “What is gbomo gbomo?” Realizing how young her niece was, she replied, “oh! That was what we called money ritual kidnappers. They were known to lure children with sweets and treats, then abduct them to use the children for all kinds of diabolical things.” Horrified, Amara gasps and putting her hand over her mouth, she exclaims, “Me being missing must have been very frightening for you.” Nodding in reminiscence, Cynthia responds, “Yes, it was. The horrid stories about the lifeless bodies of small children found in the bushes, with their remains gutted, decapitated, or dismembered, did not help at all. We truly feared for the worst.” With a sigh, a smile, and a dismissive shrug, Cynthia continued, “thankfully, the Saidus brought you back home to us unharmed. We have been good friends with that family ever since.”

Pointing at the next name on the list, Cynthia tries to continue, but Amara takes the sheet of paper from Cynthia saying “wow! Aunty wait first; I don’t remember any of this.” Cynthia laughs “of course you don’t, you were very young, and your mother took care of you so that you won’t have those memories in your head. After all, a good parent protects their child physically, psychologically, and emotionally. Raising a child successfully is a miracle. There are many challenges, pitfalls, and surprises, not to mention the factor of human error. Many of the people on this list are part of your history in one way or the other. Your mother is inviting them as a thank you! She is inviting them to bear witness to the miracle they helped produce, that the child they helped raise is getting married and beginning her own life that would not have happened if they did not assist. She does this as a call for others to celebrate with her, and she does this to honor the allies that supported her along the way.

You truly need to get over yourself and understand that this wedding maybe yours, but it is a great testimony in the life of those that raised you. Go in there and have an adult conversation with your mother. If you can’t host all 50 of them, then come to a compromise, but under no circumstance should you insult her for sharing her testimony.” With a remorseful sigh, Amara makes her way to her mother’s bedroom, to meet with her mother.