I was the most straight-faced, unimpressed, passive bride you’d ever see.
If I were a guest at my own wedding, perhaps I’d have left earlier because the energy was uninspiring. At least, my energy. My husband’s energy on the other hand filled the room as he danced, and laughed and cried. He was having the time of his life, marrying the love of his life. And so was I. Deadpan expression aside, I was extremely delighted to be getting married to my best friend. But good luck to me explaining that to the scarred guests who, no doubt, must have wondered if I was only getting married to cover up an unplanned pregnancy (I wasn’t!)
I can attribute my nuptial lethargy to many things. First, I was quite hungry (I have a funny but not funny story about how I was refused food at my wedding). Secondly, I was on my period and drained – literally. Third, I was in my “die-hard philosopher and a chronic thinker era” at the time and so, I was actively wondering, ‘if marriage is two people dying daily to self and choosing each other, then it is not easy and if it isn’t easy, then why should a wedding ceremony be flamboyant as opposed to being solemn?’ I genuinely believed that weddings ought to be solemn ceremonies that should encourage a large dose of introspection and not silly merry-making. Finally and maybe more truthfully, I was quite irritated and jaded by the many demands that our ‘African culture’ had made from me – emotionally, financially and physically leading up to the wedding. I had suffered from being told to do things which, to me were a bit unreasonable, simply because of ‘culture and tradition’. So let’s just say that I was very, ‘let’s get this over with’ during the ceremony itself.
These reasons nonetheless, I should have danced at my wedding.
During my traditional wedding, I had a little moment of introspection. The emCee was leading a popular jingle:
“Who is in the garden?
A little fine girl!
Can I come and see her?
No no no no”
She sang it as my friends surrounded me creating a figurative garden and dancing vehemently. I remember almost rolling my eyes as I stood in their midst thinking, “This is no garden. I’m not in a garden, I’m in a room’. I also rejected the jingle because it reminded me of the popular dialogue between soon-to-be inlaws in Nigeria where the husband’s family says to the wife’s, “We were passing by and saw a beautiful flower in your house so we have come to pluck it”.
I think because I’m not very feminine, the idea of being a flower has always activated some form of mental rebellion in me. So this must have been what was triggered when the emcee started her song about the garden.
But few years later, I am randomly taking a walk and I think, “I am indeed a flower”. I think about how I have evolved through life and I suddenly do not think it’s out of place to be compared to horticulture.
In many ways, I have been a stalk of rose; desiring love yet bearing prickles. Welcoming and yet cautious.
In many ways, I have been a morning-glory flower; lacking follow-through on my many beautiful and exciting plans. Starting off with the energy of a blooming flower and then closing shop rather too quickly.
In many ways, I have been a Jungle Geranium; a sweet girl, available to all, friend of all.
In many ways, I have been an aloe vera, growing in the absence of much yet being extremely useful to everyone and for a diversity of needs.
And in many ways, I have been a cactus. I don’t know if it’s a flower but you get my point. Resilient through the years. Incredibly able to adapt to my environment even when it’s difficult. Loving to grow in the dark and yes, sometimes overly protective.
I realise that I am changing in every season. I am unfolding like a flower. Adding layers as my seasons demand. Soft pink petals in my motherhood era. Protective spikes in my boundaries-creating era. And sometimes even leafless branches in seasons of waiting.
And I love it.
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