This is a follow up letter to Her Version of Events 1 .
I don’t think I have ever told you how much I don’t like weddings. Here is why; I don’t thrive well in a crowd but that is the selfish part. I believe weddings should be small and intimate with family and loved ones whose absence you would feel if they don’t attend. I don’t appreciate how we have turned it to a rice eating event and we have neglected the importance of the day, the milestone in a person’s life that launches them into forever.
All that said I was in a mood since my August vacation, I was rebuilding the walls around my heart and looking forward to going back to work, a familiar ground to help me gain balance and feel like me again.
But my mum had to ruin my perfect plan and drag me to a wedding, under the guise that I need to get out more. Get this, she didn’t know the bride or the groom personally. She is a friend to the aunty of the bride and she even went ahead and bought the aso ebi for both of us. She walked into my room that Friday night, with a dress already made for me and gele to match. I was perplexed.
My day dreams had carried me to beautiful place and I nodded to everything she said because I wanted her to leave. On Saturday morning I realized what I signed up for when her personal make up person walked into my room. The conversation of the previous night played in my head, there was no getting out of this. I put on my best fighting spirit to help me through the day.
Everyone avoids the church service but it is my best part. I like reading the vows and hearing the couple recite it. Thinking about the vows took me back to one of the many conversations I had with he-would-must-not-be-named. We agreed on weddings and the special effect that reciting your own prepared vows at your wedding has, how it makes the day special. This was on day 15 of my holiday.
Now I am not sure what to believe any more.
I was lost in thoughts so I didn’t realise when we arrived at the venue. I sat at a table with my mum and her friends and my phone became my companion. I recently started a book titled the Rose Project by Simsion Graeme; the story is captivating following the journey of man with Asperger syndrome and his approach to finding love. It is funny at all the right places.
I was lost in my book when my mum taped me to tell me about a young man looking in my direction. How she notices these things is beyond me. She was urging me to go mingle. I resisted then she gave me the sad face and launched into how I don’t want her to see her grandchildren, how I push men away, she was almost in tears. I knew the routine but I caved because her friends were judging me with their eyes. I picked my purse and left the table, I stole one backwards glance at her and she was upbeat again, I really needed my own apartment; a space free from all her drama.
I moved towards the exit but the young man blocked my path, I recognized him immediately; he sang a beautiful love song for the couple during their first dance. His face stuck with me because of the texture of his voice and the fact he played the guitar. Everyone knows I am a sucker for men who play any musical instrument.
I decided to sit and talk with him; I liked his cologne and his music.
He sounded intelligent and didn’t go overboard with the compliments so I knew he was sincere, but I wasn’t attracted to him. I found myself comparing him to he-who-must-not-be-named. So I excused myself from the conversation but not before I exchanged phone numbers with him and made plans to go for a live show of an Afro Soul Musician the next weekend.
On my ride home with my mum, I looked out the window of the car and decided I needed to stop mopping around and resume living.