It’s mainly youths that travel these days. Older people have attained some rhythm to their lives and have sunk into predictable beats: They stay at their stations throughout the year, and travel only in December. Basically. Any other time they travel, it’s for funerals.
What are the youths chasing? Jobs; greener pastures; adventure; money; community; friendship; love.
Life.
As we set out, Funke and I, she expected that we’d spend our time in the bus engaged in lively chatter. I would have loved that too, but silence often engulfs me at such times. My eyes hover over the endless bushes, and I wondered if they’d be different if Jonathan wasn’t the President. Like, I’m asking… in a forest, does it matter who be president? Does the relief dance to his beats?
The tussle for the land: how do you know that here’s Delta, and there Edo? Who measured them out? The blood that spilled, the heads that rolled… the land gulps them all and moves not. The victor and the vanquished both end up in its belly, and it belches, and excretes green, lush vegetation...
Stella’s amiable disposition soon wins her the lively patronage of two fellow travellers, and she left me to my boring life.
We arrive.
In only a matter of minutes, we were going to see all the others who had made the journey to Warri for the wedding from far and near places. I knew of the joy and elation that lay waiting to consume us once we set eyes on each other again after all these years… but not as much as I knew of the silence that ought to follow. Some will say they’ve been doing well, others will say they haven’t… but the real hidden truths everyone must decipher for themselves.
There could be morphological disappointments and/or surprises. Back in school, one might have been on his way to becoming a very tall man… we gather five, six years later and, to our dismay, he didn’t make it beyond the fifth foot. One might have been really pretty… five years… she grows fat and ugly. One might have been lanky, with bushy hairs… five years… they look good. The married ladies couldn’t quite rendezvous with us – they’re in the thick of childbearing. They look nothing like the trim, sexy girls we used to know. Time.
We take each other in so, and eased up before late night. A booze binge – call it Bachelor’s Eve – late into the night wasn’t out of place, not even for me of all people.
Blur.
Next day was the wedding, and we had to donate our solidarity in sobriety. It was why we’d come. We glide through it, pretending to feel the thrill that ought to attend white weddings… where the man is permitted by the priest to make love to his wife, supposedly, for the first ever time. We applaud, though we know it is possible elation isn’t what the man truly feels. Could be fear. Doubt: Should I have held this wedding off a bit? Should I have married girl B instead? Am I trapped? This cultural difference between her and me, should I really have ignored it? Should I have listened to my father?
Our applause disturbs his musings, and he looks up at us, beaming, with all his thirty-two teeth on display. Quite white, against the ‘black’ of his skin. Sometimes we might succeed in fooling others; but we can never lie to ourselves. Laughter’s not necessarily joy; smiles aren’t happiness; and a merry cheer isn’t peace. But whatever he may have felt didn’t matter; for the sake of everyone present, he had to act the script to the end.
When we finish with the ceremony there’s a fine car on hand to take them away. Just Wedded! The rest of us head back tiredly to our lodging. Rest for the night, disperse at dawn. Some lying lazily on mattresses, some perching on chairs, some on the floor, some standing outside… in twos, threes, fours, or all together, everyone converses. We talk about the wedding, our perceptions of gaps, signs of future friction, and all. None really holds any water. None has to. They were married, period!
It was inevitable that we’d fix our gazes in the distance and talk about ourselves: our chances, how close we were to our own weddings, and the bumps on our paths. Some gleeful as they talk, some sullen – this was the real moment. There’s often the general playful question: “Hey, when are you inviting us nah?!” Funke exudes the impression that we can’t ask her that… “Abi will I marry myself?!” But she retains hope that it’ll be soon – even though she probably had no boyfriend. That is often the dilemma of the woman. Funke: stout, plump, just about four feet, without a job, hovering around thirty, and hilarious – she too was staking a claim for a Prince Charming. She’s bold and confident. If Brad Pitt were to fly down and propose to her, she wouldn’t be flattered, wouldn’t blush; she’d feel she thoroughly deserved it. And why not?! But she couldn’t deny that she had doubts, fears, questions… What if no one comes along?
Looking through a guy’s phone, you could easily tell that he has a girlfriend, and who she be. So I see the most frequently occurring girl on Tom’s Blackberry Q5 and put it to him that his wedding should be next. He concurred. Tom was well-placed in a leading bank, had a good car, and was already planning to build his own house in Asaba. As a matter of fact, he told me his traditional marriage lay a mere two months away. But does any of us ever have it that smooth? Tom’s face toughened as he took on the other parts of the tale. His parents can’t have their first son marry far from home. Enugu lies between Anambra and Ebonyi, making both states far apart. And Ebonyi people are ‘backward’, which his parents can’t have. He assures me he has no intention of disappointing anybody – not himself, and not his folks. So he’ll marry his Ebonyi girlfriend (who was still in school); and if his parents bring the ‘enlightened’ Anambrarian, he’ll marry her too. His Dad lived in London, and wanted to pretend his objection to his son’s proposed marriage was purely western, so he says he wouldn’t want a situation whereby he’d have to support his son and his son’s family. Tom asks him, “Dad, I hardly asked you for money when I was in school. But since I left the university, have I ever asked you for money?” Now, a son asking his father that… that’s weighty! There’s already chaos on the horizon: and a wedding day, nay, wedding days of questions and doubts and fears lay ahead.
Having heard bits and pieces of Ugo’s story, everyone agrees that it was his mother’s prayers that ended his lucrative job in Akwa Ibom State. They were in the business of land reclamation for the government, and that meant demolishing and destroying peoples’ livelihoods. It was possible the people fought back, they often do, by going to shrines to make incantations. While there, Ugo met a girl whom he promoted within his family. As mothers often see what their sons can’t, his mother embarked on fierce prayers for the extrication of his son from shackles. Soon, the land reclamation project went into hibernation. The staff hung around, thinking it a matter of days or weeks. Time passed, and it didn’t seem the project was coming back on, so everyone dispersed. Ugo returned to his mother’s bosom for good, and distance stifled that ‘unwanted’ relationship. Today, he was our host.
There were those who kept on making unfunny jokes about girlfriends… how many they’ve had, where they’ve been, who they’ve been with, and what they’ve done. The thing is… when the heart cries, nobody really knows. The person could be cracking jokes and laughing, but their heart is in tears. No man who’s truly happy jokes about women that way, putting them down.
And then those who didn’t talk much about the prospect of marriage probably still faced stiff economic challenges. It seemed almost completely evident in our dressing – the difference in our economic statuses. It could be an advantage. Money could be the best vehicle for going astray… for veering off the course of destiny. Some people graduate and quickly get jobs, and that keeps them busy and occupied. Someday, they check their wristwatches and, finding it’s time to get married, they go dashing down the aisle, pulling a girl along. Their colleague is their best-man. It is the same for lovers, friends, or even enemies who got themselves prematurely pregnant. Marriage becomes a necessity. If they’re on the wrong road, they may never turn around.
But, for the unemployed, does life wait? Five, six, seven years after graduation, we come together… all our dreams haven’t come true. All our plans haven’t worked out. Or some were still making plans… none of these stopped the years from coming and going. Kingsley Idegun had died; Anastacia Ojiebele, Anita Patta… They’d lived; maybe not as long or as well as they might have wished, but they lived. Either down on their beds where they were hatching their plans, up at the table where they were plotting their moves, or our out in the fields where they were executing, they ran out of life, and their stories folded up. How about that!
No matter how fast we must move ere our lives end, that unwanted, boring period of joblessness, heartbreak, and emotional quagmire isn’t entirely useless. It might be, throughout our lives, the only period of serenity we find to philosophize… to ask those questions we ask belatedly after the priest might have joined us… to watch life from a distance.
I was called ‘nwa father’ (young priest) by Ugo’s younger sister. At some point it was debated where I got my quietude from; whether from the minor seminary where I’d been, or from the family that begot me. I said little. We had talked about how close or far away everyone was from matrimony, but my angle was uncharted – even by me. So I planned a short trip that could help…
At dawn when everyone set out for their destinations, I wasn’t headed for mine yet. I was going to Benin… to see her. I thought that… if I couldn’t get answers from her lips, I’d decipher them from her eyes, or deduce them from her demeanour. My journey was delayed, and I sensed there was an anxiety to see me – which was a positive. When I arrived, reception was haphazard. And then, as I stayed on, company was sombre. Excerptible moments were dense with unsaid words. It was an inanimate rendezvous.
By morning I was returning to base. I’d gone for answers, but I was leaving with more questions. I’d still be mute when such marriage discussions are carried on; still won’t know how far or close I be, still couldn’t say.
Or maybe I was too scared to concede the truth: that when feelings are there, they’re there; and when it’s not very clear if they are, then they’re not. When the former is the case, one can join marriage discussions, and probably say they’re close. But when the latter, then one’s not even on the journey yet.
So… Ekene’s thirty-something now, and a Barrister; Onome too, and a teacher… They’ve had their fair share of that lull of life – having dated for twelve years astride school and work life – and must have pondered their options. This ‘wrong’ marriage – if at all – might be the ‘rightest’ they’re entitled to. As in… maybe, for them, it doesn’t get better than this!
Jude Nnadozie, 16:28pm, 23rd April, 2014, Utako, Abuja, Nigeria.
