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.