“Your marriage, their wedding” repeated Aunty Funke. She has endlessly reminded me of how my wedding would not be my wedding. I’m just an avenue to bring old friends and families together. According to her, it’s my parents that are celebrating. They are celebrating me.
It’s March 18, year 2040, less than 2 weeks to my wedding. My parents frowned a lot at me getting married to a French man. Jean Claude has spent over 12 years in Nigeria, having invested heavily in agriculture since crude oil prices fell badly in year 2015. Nigeria changed drastically. That was the same year I was born. Because of the election fear that year, my parents and older siblings travelled to Paris. Since I was a citizen, even after they returned, I came back to knowing this city as mine. Friends, education, dress sense, mode of living, and ideology. According to what I was told, working in an oil producing or servicing firm in Nigeria was the best thing the years before I was born. As it is now, we don’t value oil as we have trains, and functional water transport. Supposedly, everything has changed. The only unchanged part is that parents call the shots when their children are getting married.
Since they didn’t fully support getting married to a French man, they insisted everything would be done to their tune. Jean wanted a wine tasting party as our introduction. My parents would not hear of it. We resorted to the traditional style where his folks came to my house and the usual formalities ensued.
My mind was made prepared for a boring wedding. I repeated to myself “my marriage, their wedding“.
According to wedding experts and planners, food and entertainment makes a wedding. My parents got the caterers. I’m doomed. Can I divorce my parents already? No kebabs? No French fries? No basmati rice or potatoes mixed with shrimps and some puddings by the side?
I cried and begged, that I must get my own DJ. After a lot of brouhaha, they accepted. I wrote a list of classical songs, with good lyrics and beats. I was hell bent on making the best of this aspect.
April 1, 2040, it’s my wedding day. It’s obviously themed “my marriage”, their wedding”. 60% of the guests are my parent’s folks. They looked like they were having a drag day, watching the couple’s dance. My ball dress swaying, hands locked in Jean’s, head on his chest, slowly moving to our song. I looked at my father. He was tapping his fingers on the table. There was no “aww, see my daughter, now all grown” in his eyes or face. He looked at his friends. It seems they had a plan. He stood up angrily, briskly. I got scared. He walked to the DJ and said some things. The DJ moved away. The music stopped playing. Whaaaaaaaaaaat!!!! “This is my moment. You can’t ruin it” I said with my eyes. And then in heard something strange. Some crude. Some funny melody.
“pam pa ram pam pam, Eyin Omo wobe, Wobe! Eyin omo wobe, Wobe! Mo gbo information, mation! Niru Radio , di o! E nfa Skunk!”
Hell was let loose. Every adult here jumped up. Agbadas flew away. Heels were changed to flat soles. Gele turned to waist trainer. And it turned out to be the best wedding as my father became the DJ. I don’t know if I should be thankful, but everyone sure had fun dancing with both hands doing the thumbs up, and one leg up. Wherever that came from, my friends sure liked it and that’s what matters.