Refusing to cry, I listen attentively to my uncle speaking over the phone in Ukpet. I am familiar with the everyday register of words he’s using, but the extra effort is towards distracting the tears welling up in my eyes to make them stop.
I remind him of my plan to travel to Calabar today from Lagos and then onwards to Akpet Central, my village, in Cross River State, Southern Nigeria. It’s a thing worthy of celebration; there’s no problem at all, my uncle says.
Samnunine, thank you very much, I say, ending the phone call.
Sweet relief that that awkwardness is over. I reach for the pack of serviette paper between the Uber driver and me because I notice him noticing my incipient snivelling. I explain that my father being dead hurts the most in times like this, dabbing at the misty edges of both eyes. You see, I want to get married and have to lobby others to play vital roles. I didn’t have to elaborate– he understood.
A nod in acknowledgement. And then the driver says, Pele, sorry, your Old Man would have arranged everything with joy and pride.
I made a mental note to give him a five-star rating. It will be insufficient; drivers seldom get a rating of less than five from me. In my experience, Uber is often the hustle of last resort to earn money for addressing the litany of demands that life and living make of us. Far be it from me to take away a star and add another hurdle to your hustle by complaining about your customer service. There are more people in the world that are unlike me; one of them will make a report if your poor attitude is a pattern detrimental to the public good. This man’s empathy deserves more. I will leave a comment alongside the rating, which will be the first time in my seven years as a rider: Mutiu understands. He has excellent customer service!
Past the infamous Lekki Toll, we slid right off Ozumba Mbadiwe, approaching Falomo Bridge en route to the domestic wing of Murtala Muhammed International Airport. The departure time was roughly five hours away, yet I had left the house early to avoid missing it. Accounting for traffic, the inescapable part of the Lagos condition, I had overestimated how busy the road would be three days after the Yuletide holiday. The highways are scanty, and soon we are racing on Third Mainland Bridge in silence. Out the window, the presidential campaign posters of Tinubu and Shettima lay claim to this stretch that my eyes can see; when we get to the foot of the bridge at Iyana Oworo, theirs are the only presidential campaign posters visible, waving like flags. Their dominance and preponderance say to everyone who plies the bridge: if you’re oblivious, you should know– this is Lagos, Tinubu’s turf. Having served twice as a former governor of the state and allegedly anointed every other governor since then, Tinubu is staking his claim to Nigeria’s presidency: “Emi lo kan”, “it’s my turn”, and his flags will brook no dissent. Not on Third Mainland Bridge, at least.
This election is Tinubu’s to lose, Mutiu is certain. To him, it is a done deal. Though he will not vote for Tinubu (because he is an #EndSars protester), Peter Obi is his candidate. He asks me, But do you want to know the real truth? They will not let Obi smell the presidency!
Nigeria’s 2023 election is in less than three weeks, and it worries me. The government’s sovereignty over the economy informs even the minutiae of our private lives. The unseen hands of fiscal and monetary policies shape my affairs. Thankfully, in a democracy, there’s an election, which gives us a semblance of power to decide who is responsible for the cost of living. I wonder if we will have another relatively peaceful transition from one civilian government to another. What are the chances that an opposition candidate will unseat the ruling party which President Buhari leads? Of the three popular candidates, Atiku Abubakar, Bola Tinubu, and Peter Obi, who will be Nigeria’s president? I envy Mutiu’s convictions but don’t share them. For me, the outcome is uncertain. It is clear to me, though, that who emerges as the winner impacts my goals of convincing the family of this considerate, loving, beautiful woman to let their daughter marry me, affecting my plan of becoming her husband and someday somebody’s father.
A couple of months ago, my fiancée and I were in a cab going in the opposite direction through Third Mainland Bridge. On that day, the outdoor advertisement that caught my attention was that of a majestic-looking bottle of whiskey, Glenmorangie. I had resolved that it would be the perfect gift to show respect to my future father-in-law at our first formal meeting. Now, the weight of my luggage startles my uncle as he lifts and loads it into the back seat of his car at Margaret Ekpo International Airport Calabar. The heaviest items in the bag are two bottles of non-alcoholic wine for him and my future father-in-law, both bottles less than ten per cent of the cost of my desired Glenmorangie, which would have been heavier, worthier.
But in the span between my window-shopping resolve and the checkout point, the whiskey’s price, like everything else, had ballooned higher than my income, teaching me a lesson in basic economics. Listen, it’s a want, not a need. Opportunity cost: you’ll rue choosing whiskey over grocery shopping. Wine is a splendid alternative — isn’t he somewhat a teetotaller?
I present the bottle of wine to my uncle and say my plan in person. I will need his help in a couple of days when I introduce myself to my fiancée’s family. My aunt, his wife, and my mother’s younger sister had suggested this approach. Her husband understands the language and culture of Igbo Imabana, where my future father-in-law hails from in Cross River.
There’s no problem, he reiterates. Inform me well ahead of time once you have confirmation on the date for the Introduction.
Less clean and more provincial, Calabar is different from how I remember it. After I graduated from the University of Benin, in Edo State, my Papa wanted to future-proof my career. So, he asked me to go to Calabar for a couple of weeks and inquire at the Institute of Chartered Accountants of Nigeria (ICAN). Fresh from Benin, I was surprised to see public streets swept and the presence of mobile courts to prosecute littering. When I came to the city to learn how I could become a chartered accountant, we lived in Benue State. By sending me to ICAN Calabar, Papa envisioned a future where my humanities degree in Philosophy didn’t disadvantage me from getting a job that paid me a living wage. In his estimation, a professional certification in accounting is an excellent buffer. As I drag my luggage on Highway Calabar, walking towards the Biase Motor Park, it occurs to me that for most of his life, Papa had been preparing me for a future without him, needing to arrange everything for me. But I did not prepare myself for a world without him.
I squeeze myself into a Sienna and embark on another journey to Akpet Central, Biase. The driver of the Sienna drives fast out of Calabar’s serene environment, leaving behind an even mix of greenery and concrete. He makes many curvy turns through dusty red and brown roads. In some places, there are no roads at all; what’s constant is thick vegetation adjoining either side. At Odukpani, it starts to dawn on me what kind of day it is.
A soothing wind is blowing. Unlike in Birago Diop’s “Breaths”, when I listen to the wind, I don’t hear the sobbing of the trees; I overhear them humming a song. If this is a movie about my life, we are at the point where I’m taking my family out in this Sienna to a picnic. It’s the kind of day for being surrounded by joy, laughter and hope.
We are at Akamkpa. This town is my place of birth. I don’t see the General Hospital where I was born, but I spy the road to the bone setter where I took my father within the period before he passed, nearly fifteen years ago. In his telling of it to my mother, Papa recounts how he slipped as we climbed the slope. I wonder what would have happened if Aiby wasn’t there, he says. It is not something I like to think about or remember. But I do. I smile and promise to be “so strong that nothing can destroy my peace of mind”. It’s what he would have done; my father believed in facing his fears head-on. Papa taught me the entirety of the above quote by Christian D. Larson so that I never relinquish my power to choose courage and happiness.
Before I understood the concept of a hype man, there was my father, Mr Suny Merengeni Meres. My Papa, my greatest cheerleader. I am about to take the most significant decision of my life, and I need some of that encouragement. I miss his love and advice and think I need both now more than ever. I am in the village, Akpet Central, making my way to our family house, unsure of what I will find.
We are cramped together in my future father-in-law’s sitting room. The space shouldn’t fit ten people; it does. All of us are men. Perhaps, he notices this and calls his wife to join us. She refuses and prefers to stay with the women pulling the strings behind the scenes. Once in a while, she will pop in the room and whisper something into her husband’s ear, or my fiancee will come to do the same and say to me that they have agreed this is what we should do. My mum’s elder sister, her daughter, and my other aunties make up this they.
My uncle hails everyone: Akpet u sam o! Igbo Imabana nvo sam o! People of Akpet and Igbo Imabana, we salute you!
The language of love is cliched. The language of marriage, the institution of love, is also cliched. My uncle notes: We are here because we saw a beautiful flower in this compound. And we have come to nurture it. (A possible line from Nollywood, but art imitates life.)
Tradition and good sense demand, my uncle continues, that when you go to someone’s house, the first thing to do is to knock on the door. Sir (he’s addressing my fiancée’s father), we have come to do Knocking.
He looks at me, surprised. Knocking isn’t the original plan. He protests, No, you have come for Introduction. For Knocking, we must go to my village in Igbo.
Pandemonium breaks out. Before this meeting, my uncle had emphasised that I needed to be an observer. I’m wondering if this is a new plan. My delegation had come to achieve two goals: the Introduction and negotiation of the bridal list.
Knocking is a lot more elaborate than Introduction. They argue that if we were here for Knocking, they would have invited more people to celebrate with them, and there ought to have been a canopy outside the compound to host them. My uncle argues that Knocking is a line item on the marriage list that the family has given to us; but the Introduction isn’t on it.
To diffuse the situation, the people of Igbo Imabana and Akpet Central agree to parley outside. My future father-in-law and I remain inside, facing each other. In their absence, he doesn’t accuse me of deceit. After ten minutes, both parties re-enter the room.
We restart the proceedings: the agreement is to do the Knocking now, but the negotiations on the list will be done later before the traditional marriage ceremony, both of which will happen in Igbo Imabana. Afterwards, my uncle explains that purchasing and providing the items on the Knocking section of the marriage list obtains a firm commitment and ensures the family doesn’t entertain another suitor.
As a result, I give my cousin my debit card and smile, remembering conversations with my mother. She believes my getting married is an investment. She says: You must change your mindset. To encourage me on one of those days when she found my worry and complaints about the considerable cost of project marriage a little too much.
Your father’s name lives on because he married and had you and your siblings. Don’t you know that? She asks me rhetorically.
She means that Papa was an only child. I ignore the pinging debit alerts and wonder what my father will say or how he will feel about my getting married. I reckon Papa will be proud and display happiness that may rival mine. He will also prepare me for the journey and challenges of a long and happy marriage.
I’m at his gravesite to tell him about something else. To say: There may be more people in the world who are unlike me, but I want to be one of those who are courageous enough to make a change. And then my mum calls me on the phone to celebrate.
Mummy says: You’ve taken a bold first step; it won’t be easy, but you will have help. There’s something your father used to say.
She pauses, trying to recall a saying of my Papa, which he must have borrowed from his keen interest and study of mysticism and epistemology.
Is it, “When the student is ready, the teacher will appear?”
Yes, that’s the one!
She laughs when I tease her about remembering this maxim and mixing her Christian Pentecostal faith with my Papa’s eclectic spirituality. And then I take a deep breath and affirm silently, Here I am. E
