Where I come from, girls pray for this day and go over and beyond to look perfect. I am like them, gaping at my reflection in the mirror as my eyes well up. I just couldn’t hold back the tears even though my make-up artist had begged me to. I mean, who wouldn’t get emotional after how prime I have been made to look today?
My hair was tightly gelled up in a bun and accessorised with beads. My face, softly glammed just the way I liked it. My chest, snuggly held in my velvety isiagu outfit. The coral beads my mother had carefully selected settled on my neck and around my waist, giving my body a fine accentuation. I looked like what I had envisioned and even more. As an Ada, the first of three girls, today’s ceremony is one for the books. You can tell from the big smile that appears on my mother’s face as she enters my room.
“Ada oma!
Omalicha nwanyi!
My daughter, you look so beautiful.”
She hailed me with pride and walked up to me. Looking into my eyes, she held my hands and proceeded to offer prayers.
“Adaora! Where are you oh! Start coming out! The guests are waiting.” My loud aunt called, her head popping through the door.
“Ohhhh! You people are praying. Oya fast, the guests are waiting. It’s time for you to dance outside.” She continued, now fully inside the room, not minding that she had ruined a moment.
“See how beautiful you’re looking,” she added, caressing my chin.
“Auntie, don’t spoil my makeup .” I grumbled with a pout.
After several minutes of thanks and requests to God, my mother finally let me go. I stepped out with pride to see the people who couldn’t wait to see me. My sisters and friends added more layers to my prestige as they danced behind me, representing my entourage of maidens.
My waist rhythmically moved to the sound of the ogene and live band music that filled my father’s compound.
I danced my way to my family’s canopy. I have never seen my father this happy. I doubted it was solely because I had finally found a man. The pride that came along with hosting the first-ever Igba nkwu ceremony in his compound must have added to the mix. He showered me with praises as I knelt before him. My mother pulled me into her embrace shortly after, and after what felt like an eternity, she released me. I graciously danced to my inlaws and greeted them; they sang my praises so much I began wondering if I was just a flower their son had come to pluck or more like a bag of gold he had found.
I continued dancing and waving my nza to the familiar faces I saw in the crowd till I circled back to the house. Following due process, I went in to prepare for my second appearance. The chaos started again, with my make-up artist and stylist rallying around to prep me for my second outfit and appearance. Amidst all the disarray, all I could think about was everything that had brought me to this moment. The dashed hopes, the heartbreaks, the anxiety, the constant teasing– all faded away like a distant memory before me.
I knew it was because of that night. The night I turned thirty, when I tore the birthday wishlist my best friend had encouraged me to write. I asked God to forget about the thirty things I had written down and grant me the one request I have been begging for, a husband. A husband to make me a wife. To make me speak where my mates were speaking, to take away my loneliness and make me whole. To finally make my parents proud and end the endless questioning. I cried like never before that night, and I believe God felt how hot my eyes were from crying and finally heard me. He sent me my man, the one I would call my husband from today on.
My Odogwu, as I fondly call him, showed me soft love, the kind I had been looking for. The kind of love I doubted ever existed after my previous tumultuous relationships. A love with reassurance, sentimental and thoughtful gifts, clear communication and comprehension, and kindness even when we had clashes.
God bless the day we casually met at the office. I never believed customer attraction could lead to anything serious, but I was proved wrong. I found my man right where my mother complained I was focusing too much energy, at work. My spec, my fine Igbo man! I couldn’t wait to see how dashing he looked in his traditional outfit.
I heaved a sigh of relief as the gele artist finally let go of my head, announcing that she was through. I had been moving from side to side, impatiently waiting to be called out for the most iconic part of the day’s ceremony. Finally, I was ushered in and stylishly walked up to my family’s canopy again. With a wide smile plastered across my face, I received a glass of palm wine from my father. I was entrusted with a simple task: to find my husband in the crowd, give him the palm wine, and bring him to my parents to bless our union.
“Who is that young man that has made us gather here today?” The master of the ceremony asked, drawing his words with enough sarcasm.
“This is your time; we are going to unveil you now.”
I danced gracefully, my hips softly moving to the live band’s rendition of Flavour’s hit song, “Ada Ada.” As I approached my inlaw’s canopy, I scanned through the crowd, teasing the men who were pretentiously posing to be my groom. My eyes searched intently but my husband was nowhere in sight. I clutched the glass of palm wine tighter in my trembling hands as I proceeded to search the other canopies.
“Where is this man?” I whispered under my breath, my heart already pounding in my chest. I circled all the canopies, trying to keep my cool through the brewing chatter in the crowd. Whispers and laughter reached my ears as my heart raced. My steps faltered as I glanced back at my father’s canopy, unsure of what to do next.
Suddenly, the sound of the ogene and the live music began to fade. The crowd blurred, the familiar faces losing form. My grip on the glass loosened as an aggressive tap on my shoulder jolted me.
“Ada, wake up!” A voice cut through the haze, yanking my shoulder.
“Where is he?” I murmured, my heart still racing. My eyes fluttered open to the figure of my mother, hovering over me.
Wait, why was she in her nightgown? I thought she was dressed a while ago. I scanned my lying body, and I wasn’t in the green george I just saw myself wearing earlier.
“What are you talking about?” She leaned over, her face full of concern.
“Please get up, Adaora. We need you in the kitchen,” she urged, her hands resting on her hips, clearly over my dazed state.
The scent of burning firewood under large pots mingled with the fresh aroma of the dawn, filling my nostrils with successive notes. I reached for my phone across my bed and slowly inhaled the air around me. In my opinion, 4 a.m. was an unusually early time to begin cooking for the day’s ceremony.
I stretched my legs lazily in the air, allowing my mind to slowly awaken from all the delusions that came with my sleep. Today was indeed going to be quite eventful, with all the preparations already enlivening my father’s compound. He was about to host his first-ever Igba nkwu, a special occasion for him but a bittersweet one for me. I’m not the bride; I’m the bride’s elder sister, and as you can already tell, I’m still searching for a husband while my younger sister has just beaten me to it.
