My marriage, their wedding


Your marriage, their wedding” repeated Aunty Funke. She had endlessly reminded me of how my wedding would not be my wedding per se. 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- the fact that they successfully raised me.

It’s March 18, year 2040, less than 2 weeks to my wedding. My parents frowned a lot at the idea of 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 had changed drastically, I was told. That was the same year I was born. Because of the election fear that year, my parents and older siblings travelled to Paris.  After the election, we all returned to Nigeria. But being a French citizen, I returned to enjoy the benefits. So I stayed in Paris almost all my life. I knew this city as mine- my 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 transportation systems. Although everything has changed in Nigeria, the only unchanged part is that parents call the shots when their children are getting married.

Since they didn’t fully support my getting married to a French man, they insisted everything would be done their way. 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 was doomed. Can I divorce my parents already? No kebabs? No French fries? No Rillettes? No Escargots or Ratatouille? No basmati rice or potatoes mixed with shrimps and Truffes by the side? I was moping around during the whole preparations.

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 parents’ folks. They looked like they were having a drag day, watching the couple’s dance. My ball dress swaying, hands locked in Jean’s, my 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” look 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 I 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! Ninu 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’m not sure I should be thankful because even my friends joined in the ‘2 hands arched, in the thumbs up position, and one leg up’ dance style that went on all through the rest of the party.

 dj

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32 thoughts on “My marriage, their wedding

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  1. Loool, agbada flew away, gele became waist trainer, loved that part, but nobody hears ” it’s yung John the wicked producer and remains the same”. 👍

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  2. Loool, agbada flew away, gele became waist trainer, loved that part, but nobody hears “it’s young John the wicked producer” and remains the same…. 👍

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  3. Hahahaha…you have done it again bro. Always on point and funny as hell. Keep it up bro and one day cnn would feature you on African voices…thumbs up

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  4. Oh my!!!!! Nice read sola!! That’s our generation in the future…..schooling the kids on how to ‘Shakiti bobo’ and ‘shoki’ and ‘dab’ and etc ☺☺☺

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  5. Loool! Can’t blame the parents. Too much french in that girl’s blood has made her boring. Classical music all through, who does that?!

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  6. Lol still cracking me up after the third read through. I have read and thought of various angles to this and have come up with a question for you writer. Can it still be ‘their wedding’ if they are not financially capable??
    Nice write up!!

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  7. Wen u av a book”compilation of short stories” I will definitely buy! Nice writeup bt d parents were rather harsh a lill bit

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  8. I can’t dance yh, but God knows that when I’m in my 50s and I attend a wedding and hear “Eyin Omo Wobe” I’m definitely gonna give them Shakiti Bobo

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  9. Hahaha.. This had me bursting out at my desk especially the wobe wobe part. This is very true, our parents take our wedding like theirs. I always dream of a glam wedding of about 150 guests 50 family members, 100 friends of me and my husband. But I know that ain’t happening as the only child (girl) of some awesome family from Ibadan. I already know it’s my marriage and their wedding….. Excellently written

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