I think I finally have found an answer to the meddlesome query- ‘When will you marry... This year, next year, sometime or never?’ - that the more nosy fraction of my acquaintances seems to be throwing at me lately.
My mum was trying to establish eye contact, but I wasn’t having it. We were seated across from each other, separated by a yellow and gold laid table in a room which had on this day exploded in an infusion of lime, gold and olive. It was a wedding reception, the programme had just progressed to item number nine and the MC was announcing, even as I pretended not to be listening, that it was time for the bride to throw the bouquet. Already the DJ had cranked up the music and we, ‘the single ladies’, were already being serenaded by Beyonce’s aptly titled rendition of our plight.
It was for this reason I sat, staring determinedly into my glass of five alive juice, while glances around the corner of my eye showed my mum, eyes fixed steadily on me, doing everything she could to get my attention, willing me to look her way so she could send me for the bouquet. I continued sipping my drink, feigning ignorance, and trying to pass the time looking at anything but my mum- my phone, my shoes, my plate of left over jolloff rice- till the MC stopped requesting ringless hands to catch the posy. But you know how fickle the eyes can be, attracted, even when the owner isn’t, to forbidden sights... My eyes stole a quick glance at my mum and before I could murmur ‘oh sugar!’, she pounced on the opportunity of my wary attention and began urging me to go for it.
Trust me, I declined; and had just finished communicating my terse refusal when an aso-ebi bedizened friend of the bride, as if secretly commissioned by my mother for this sole purpose came at me, snatching my bag off my laps, and handing it to my mother before herding me towards the burgeoning crowd of hopeful brides-to-be. And it was to my mum’s utter delight that I submitted shyly to the stranger’s high-handedness and made way towards the nuptial accelerating flowers.
My mum and I, we both knew, or thought we did, that if the bouquet landed on the ground before my feet, I’d be more inclined to give it a kick back where it came from than stoop to pick it up. It isn’t that I do not plan to get married or frown particularly at what I consider to be yet another item off the wedding programme. It’s just that after a few years or so of having this same face-off with my mum at every wedding party we attend together, and following a 24-day period of prolonged exposure to open insinuations and theatrics about my matrimonial prospects and my mum’s wishes to 'have had a wedding or be planning one by December’ (her words, not mine), I was tired of the hassle.
The victorious bride danced on the podium, flinging her bejewelled hand every which way, all the better for us to appreciate the rings that had only recently taken up residence on it; urging us to dance and feinting left and right before finally hurling the missile into the crowd. I watched in passing interest as everything sprung to action- the bouquet somersaulted crazily mid-air as if trying to decide whom to choose, three of the girls closest to the careening garland struggled amongst themselves, succeeding only in grabbing each other’s hairpieces, hands and legs scattered every which way while their energetic bodies crushed the flowers between them. I laughed, amused at the sights before me, wondering which of them would catch the bouquet before my eyes registered that the bunch of flowers had freed itself from the prison of their united embrace and dropped to my peep-toe clad feet.
I battled with my inner devil, should I pick it and give my mum something to crow about; should I not, and prove to myself and to others how disinterested I was in this whole palaver. All this happened while I wondered why the girls in front of me were still tied in a three-body tango in an attempt to grab hold of the elusive bunch which still laid docilely before me. Perhaps it was knowing how much they wanted the bouquet that finally determined my decision to lay my stubbornness aside, pick the bouquet and sashay off with the flowers to present it to my mum, and tease her about the need to begin planning a wedding.
I was called back to the table for all the rites. Here go MC and I:
MC- What’s your name?
ME- Sola
MC- What a nice name!
ME- Thanks. (A nice name for a boy, a girl, a hermaphrodite or a donkey)
MC- So you are going to be our next bride
ME- Shy smile.
MC- I’m still single oh, will you marry me?-
ME- Yeah, I will. (Not likely, at least not unless you quit your MCing and get a day job or strike it hard enough to be the next Alibaba)
MC- Hope you'll give me your number before you go
ME- Of course (not)
And off I went to be congratulated by all and sundry; you’d have thought I was the bride herself.
An older lady on my table who had noticed what went down between my mum and I even went so far as to say ‘and you were refusing to go earlier, why were you trying to deny your destiny?’ I wanted to laugh or maybe cry or maybe ask her what her business was.
So, now I have caught the bouquet and people seem inclined to believe that this one feat predicts glad connubial tidings for me this year, what next? Will the elusive mister husband finally deem it time to show his person? Will I finally stop getting chatted by players or OWH’s (other women’s husbands)?
Whatever the case though, with immediate effect I am throwing the gates open for applications. Any young man wishing to tie the nuptial knot this year should apply forthwith. There’ll be a screening process, but never fear, even if you do not own a car, your application will be considered (the bit of wisdom I got from the wedding is to henceforth be polite to guys in buses – it was inside one that the bride and groom first met, and there’s no telling that mine won't be the same). It should be noted, however, that having a snazzy car, a pretty face, a buff body, your own business, a home in Lekki or VI, or earning what might equal an armed robber’s salary can only be beneficial to your application.
As for the boys who like to put ladies like me on a long thing, coming to hold fingers they have no intention of adorning, I’ll tell them this one thing and they’d better take me serious- If you see me coming at you, cross the road; if I head towards Sapele, run for Adamawa; because if you risk toasting me this year when you haven’t the slightest intention of putting a ring on it, it just might be last toast you make
This is my year, so say the flowers, and in advance, I say ‘I do!’
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