After adding extra two hundred box to my cab fare just to placate the nagging taxi driver who complained endlessly till I reached my destination, I walked through the gate in my copy of that light green long-sleeved native and silk green cap to-match aso-ebi. The church building was such a brilliant piece of architecture sitting in front of mouth gaping skyscrapers in an exclusive area of the Victoria Island. As usual, I was late to this wedding. It was the voice of the groom I heard first as he recited his marriage vows with glee and a little tint of that american r-factor. Though I could sense he was very happy he made sure he didn’t betray his emotions. It was the bride’s turn and she followed the clergy’s lead meticulously. I suppose she had rehearsed the dot on the i. Midway, she couldn’t hold her heartfelt delight that she was finally making a lifetime promise to the man of her dreams before the august congregation of friends and family. She giggled. I thought everybody smiled in the hall. At least I did. But she held herself and completed the oath.
We rose to a hymn following the vow. It was at this point I realized that the bench in front of me was occupied by ladies. Mostly young damsels all dressed in their yellow anko. I made sure to maintain my gaze at an angle of elevation looking at the screen before me that projected lyrics. But I must confess that my gaze frequently went to an angle of depression. Often getting to 60 degrees. Yes I was taller than them, but whatever I was looking at that angle. Sorry, back to the event. Preacher preached real good (I have always secretly asked myself who really listens to wedding sermons). Husband held his wife as they walked in tandem all so proudly and elegantly towards the exit. As I stepped outside, I saw a colleague. After a few compliments, she asked innocuously “You came alone?” That sounded to me like “Are you still single? Where’s your girlfriend?” With a smile, I responded Yes. With pride.
And then I saw them. The Yoruba boys (Some call them demons). Some of them are my friends. Oh, don’t ask me why I wasn’t on the train. Ask the groom. Actually don’t ask. I had seen their picture taken two days earlier. Cute looking then. Even more now. Perfect gentlemen.
Those grey suits were designed by a young dentist and fashion entrepreneur who was also part of the groom’s men (his exquisite designs show creativity and yes, I have forgiven him). There was one of them, a guru and the closest to me who surprisingly…lol…made the twenty-man train. Yeah, Mr Groom, how on earth did he make the train with that kinda mustachio? We talked secretly and laughed out loud about the most obvious thing before us. Your guess is right… the ladies, the bridal train. It was a delight to see them gorgeously dressed in their shades of green. Twenty shades of green. As the ladies took turns on with their photo shoot, I looked on with smiles while they posed, seeing those we have liked (actually WE; meaning several). Perfect bodies on display. Beauty accentuated. Green gowns. Green grass. My God, who made that selection? Genius!
We proceeded to the wedding reception. Google Maps was helpful (use it) just as this former church drummer blasted Kiss Daniel from his reverberating car system. But I liked his plain speech and honest conversation as we cruised the expressway into the Lekki peninsula. Fast forward and I was in the hall. Heavily and expertly decorated, each table was prepared as though for the Queen of England. Then the sound system. Simply put, on point. The hall vibrated. My heartbeat almost started resonating to the vibes. The vocals and instrumentals were well mixed and filtered such that you could hear all parts distinctly yet in synchrony. Treble perfect. Exciting local tunes contemporized with modern beats from the bandstand led by a talented juju artist. I strode down the hall and tried to look through my newly cut lens for familiar faces. I saw beautiful faces. I saw old faces.
Finally I got a seat beside one very laiskin friend who had been the freshest and calmest guy I’ve ever known. The table had been served already I suppose. It wasn’t long that the couple danced in. DJ played every song we knew. I had barely confided in my friend of my favorite hiphop love song in secret by one Sean that he hit the button while the couple danced in with exuding glamour and glee. Paparazzi on point. Clicks from gold-plated posh phones taking shots (Apple’s soon-to-be-released iPhone 7 would have begged for a postponement). They were covered in glory and brightness as angels. We the guests became as mere mortals. Meanwhile hunger was using style to build up. Waiters would not wait at my table. It didn’t matter. Or did it? Years ago I had led a group of people back to campus from a wedding with joy without a meal at the banquet. Praise God somebody! Tick-tock, I had to go to work. A few more compliments here and there. That beautiful lady who now knew I came alone was going in my direction. So we left, after one dark-skinned, afro-haired guy in dark grey suit (he looks more Ghanaian than Nigerian) gave her a passionate possessive hug outside the hall. Hehe, I didn’t leave alone afterall. The rest was not history. It was another story. Of love. Of proposal. I thought the wedding was over
…but then it had spilled over.