by Tanya Byrne
‘What is this, Adamma?’ he asked, peering over the top of his newspaper as a shower of pink rose petals fluttered onto his bed.
‘Scarlett’s sister’s getting married,’ I said with some relief before the lump in my throat formed as I realised there was no note, no I hope your dad’s better or I miss you. The only thing she’d written was my address on the front of the envelope.
‘The big one, I hope.’
‘Yes.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Eighteen.’
He went back to his newspaper with a humph. ‘Listen to this, Ezi,’ he muttered when my mother came in with a vase of flowers.
‘Pretty!’ she said, nodding at the rose petals.
‘Wedding invitation,’ I muttered, trying to stuff them back into the envelope.
‘Who’s getting married, Ada?’
‘Scarlett’s sister, Edith.’
I saw her eyebrow quirk up in the reflection of the window as she put the vase on the windowsill. ‘How old is she?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Nishad.’
I knew that Edith was in love, much to her grandmother’s horror. She had been for months and I think Scarlett was a little put out; she was the one who was supposed to fall in love with a guy her grandmother hated.
‘Have they been together long?’ my mother asked, her voice a little higher.
I considered lying but went with, ‘He’s a doctor,’ instead.
‘A doctor! How did they meet?’
‘They’re volunteering together in India.’
I saw her eyebrow quirk up again. ‘Didn’t she just go to India?’
‘In August.’
She exchanged a glance with my father, muttered something I couldn’t make out in Igbo, then went back to the flowers, taking one of the orange lilies and putting it in a glass of water next to my father’s bed. ‘Don’t tell Papa any more, Ada.’ She kissed him on the forehead. ‘We don’t want him to have a heart attack, too.’
He chuckled from behind his newspaper. ‘I’m in the right place.’
‘Uche!’ She frowned. ‘I choro ihe a?’
‘No, I don’t want that, Ezi. I’m just saying.’
It’s the only time my mother treats me like a child, when she argues with my father. She insists on arguing in Igbo, as though I won’t understand what she’s saying, but my father never humours her, which infuriates her more.
She put her hands on her hips. ‘Amuna m amu.’
‘I’m not laughing at you, my love. Merely noting the convenience of it.’
She turned to me with a huff. ‘When is this wedding?’
I checked the invitation. ‘December the twenty-second.’
She blinked at me. ‘This year?’
I nodded.
‘But that’s next Saturday, Ada.’
‘They’re not getting any younger, Ezi,’ my father said from behind his paper.
‘Well.’ She clapped. ‘We must book you a flight. Get you a dress.’
‘I’m not going.’ I looked at her like she was mad and she returned the favour.
‘Why not?’
‘I can’t leave, Papa.’
She huffed. ‘You see, Uche.’ She tugged at the sleeve of his pyjamas. ‘All this talk of heart attacks and now the child is too scared to leave your side.’
‘Adamma,’ he said, moving his hand and letting the corner of his newspaper droop down so he could look at me. ‘You have to go. You’ve been invited. It would be rude not to. Besides, it’s been two weeks. You must miss your friends.’
As if on cue, my cellphone buzzed.
Did you get the invite to the Wedding of the Year? – D x
‘Ada,’ my mother snapped.
‘Sorry, Mama.’ I pressed my lips together so she wouldn’t see me smile.
He’d been in touch constantly since we parted at the airport. It began with a text to let him know I’d landed safely, then he texted back to check on my father, then on me, then, within a day or so, we were texting each other every few minutes. It was driving my mother nuts; she told me off every time I got a message. I’d even turned my phone on silent, but she still heard it when it vibrated.
‘Fine. I’ll go,’ I said with a sigh, picking up the rest of the petals and putting them in the envelope. But my heart fluttered at the thought of seeing him again.
Fluttered and fluttered.
As soon as I RSVP’d, Scarlett didn’t leave me alone. She still didn’t call, but I gathered from the string of emails she sent that the wedding was going to be a bit like a Nigerian one in that everyone in the village was involved. The butcher provided the meat, the florist the flowers and the poor old lady in the bakery was going blind piping a lace design onto the cake to match Edith’s dress. It was like a Royal wedding, Scarlett insisted, everyone was talking about it.
She loved it, of course, loved emailing me every day before I left Lagos with photos of the bunting hanging in the village and her bridesmaid’s dress and the flowers she’d be carrying. Anyone would think she was the one getting married. And while she finally said all the right things – Have a safe flight . . . Can’t wait to see you . . . I’ll make sure your dad gets the biggest piece of wedding cake! – it was always an afterthought at the end of her message.
She invited me to the rehearsal dinner the night before the wedding. I wasn’t in the wedding party so I have no idea why they wanted me there, but as soon as her father opened the door to me and gathered me into a hug, I realised why.
‘Adamma, darling,’ her mother gasped when she saw me walk in, pulling me into a hug, then feeding me a quail egg hors d’oeuvres while telling me that I must be famished after my flight.
Hearing the commotion, Olivia wandered out of the dining room, then flew at me, hugging me as well – even though she never had before – asking how my father was. That’s when I saw her, coming down the staircase in a Merlot-coloured gown that Edith must have been grateful she was wearing the evening before her wedding. She didn’t flinch when she saw me, just smiled that Mona Lisa smile, and when she got to me, she put her hands on my shoulders and kissed me on both cheeks. ‘How lovely to see you, Adamma. Thank you for coming,’ she said, as though I was a distant cousin she only saw at weddings, then she gestured at one of the staff lingering in the hall with a tray of hors d’oeuvres to take my coat.
When he had, I noticed her smile tighten as she turned to her parents and Olivia, who were still next to me, waiting for me to finish telling them about my father. It took them a moment, but they took the hint and dispersed in different directions as she led me towards the dining room.
‘That’s a lovely dress,’ she said with a slight swing of the hips as we rounded the table in the middle of the hall, the vase of paper white roses on it almost yellow under the light of the chandelier. ‘I wish I had the courage to wear orange.’
I registered the jab with a wounded frown, but she didn’t look at me, just carried on towards the voices and the ring of crystal spilling out of the dining room. But as we approached the doorway, she stopped and pushed her shoulders back.
‘I’m glad your father’s better,’ she said with a warmer smile, and it was her way of apologising for the swipe about my dress, I know, but it didn’t feel like enough.
‘Why haven’t you been in touch, Scarlett?’
She seemed startled by that and blinked at me a few times, before catching herself and waving her hand. ‘I didn’t want to bother you,’ she said with a long sigh that told me to stop making a fuss. ‘Not when you were with your family.’
A couple of weeks ago, I might have pushed her, might have told her that she was family, but she isn’t, I know that now, so I shrugged and followed her into the dining r
oom. He was the first person I saw and I was so surprised that it made my heart stop dead in my chest, like a car hitting a brick wall. I didn’t think I’d see him and I guess he didn’t think he’d see me, either, because I said I’d see him at the wedding. It was such a surprise that I almost stepped on Scarlett’s toe.
Olivia was talking to him and clearly besotted, her head tilted and her eyes wider than I’ve ever seen them (if she was a cartoon character they would have been two huge hearts) as he said something that made her laugh. I suddenly felt very smug at the thought of the string of text messages on my phone, of all the things I knew about him, our private jokes, the x he now added to each one he sent. So when he looked up and his mouth split into a smile, it made me smile, too, and it’s silly, because I’ve known him for months, but it was like seeing him for the first time. I’d even given him a nickname because my mother kept asking who I was talking to – Vivian Darkbloom, the pseudonym Nabokov wanted to publish Lolita under, which I figured was apt after our furious exchange over whether it was really an epic love story or just creepy. ‘My friend Vivian,’ I tell my mother each time she asks, the lie rolling off my tongue, swift and delicious.
He even looked different, younger – softer – his hair a mess from where he’d been playing with it too much, and I had to fight the urge to run over to him. I think he did as well, because he took a step forward, then stopped himself and waved instead. I waved back, but when I realised that Scarlett was standing next to me, smiling and waving, too, my cheeks suddenly stung as our arms dropped to our sides in unison. She turned to look at me, more confused than angry, then caught herself. ‘I’ll get us some champagne.’ She smiled sweetly.
But she never came back.
There was no seating plan, so when Scarlett’s father invited us to sit down for dinner, she made no move to sit near me and remained at the top of the table, next to Dominic, her glance sweeping towards me every now and then like the arc of a lighthouse warning me to keep back. So I reached for the nearest chair. The table filled up quickly and a moment after I sat down, Mr Lucas put his hand on the chair next to mine and asked if anyone was sitting there. When I told him there wasn’t, the old woman sitting opposite me eyed him carefully, clearly questioning his intentions, then softened and leaned a little closer when he asked after my father, making no effort to disguise the fact that she was listening to my response.
‘He’s much better. Thank you,’ I said stiffly, my cheeks flushing a little under her gaze. ‘He should be out of hospital soon.’
His shoulders relaxed. ‘That’s a relief,’ he said, pouring me a glass of water, the ice tumbling out of the silver jug with a clatter then landing in the glass with a series of PLOPs. When it was full, he held up his champagne glass. ‘To his health.’
I lifted my eyelashes to look at him as we clinked glasses. ‘To his health.’
‘Are we toasting?’ I heard Scarlett say and glanced up the table to find her watching us with a curious smile. I don’t know how she heard us from the other end of the room – not over the chatter as compliments were exchanged about the flowers – but with that, everyone turned to look and I was so embarrassed I wanted to dissolve into a puddle of linen and lace.
Luckily, Mr Lucas recovered quickly, turning to Edith and Nishad and raising his champagne glass with a smile. ‘Look down you gods, and on this couple drop a blessed crown.’
There was a titter of approval as everyone around the table raised their glasses. Edith looked thrilled and turned to Nishad and kissed him to another titter. Her grandmother didn’t join in; she plucked a drooping tulip out of the centrepiece and handed it to the waiter as he put a small plate of asparagus down in front of her.
‘The Tempest?’ I whispered when everyone returned to their conversations.
He lowered his voice as well. ‘It was either that or The Simpsons.’ He shrugged. ‘Wrong crowd.’ I must have looked confused because he did a frighteningly accurate impression of Homer. ‘What is a wedding? Webster’s Dictionary defines a wedding as “the process of removing weeds from one’s garden.”’
I tipped my head back and laughed, which earned me another look from Scarlett, but I couldn’t help it. I never thought I’d hear Mr Lucas quote The Simpsons. He chuckled, too, and when we’d calmed down he nodded at my dress.
‘Is that a wrapper?’
‘It’s an African print, but it’s just a dress.’ I blinked at him, impressed. ‘How do you know what a wrapper is?’
‘I did some reading about Hindu wedding ceremonies because I was curious about what Edith and Nishad’s ceremony would have been like in India.’ He pushed his glasses back up his nose and I don’t know if he even realised he’d done it, but I almost laughed again. The hopeless geek. Mind you, I probably would have looked it up, too.
‘They had a Hindu ceremony?’
‘Oh yes.’ He paused to take a sip from his glass. ‘They’re already legally married. All of this is just for their friends and family.’
I looked up the table at Scarlett’s grandmother who was talking to the priest and holding her empty glass out for a refill to no one in particular. Olivia obliged.
‘But while I was reading about Hindu weddings, there was a link to an article about Igbo ones and I couldn’t resist. It was fascinating.’ He swallowed another mouthful of champagne. ‘Western weddings are very different.’
‘It’s not my first,’ I told him with a smile and he blushed.
‘Of course,’ he said, suddenly flustered. ‘I didn’t—’
I raised my hand with a warmer smile. ‘It’s OK. I know what you mean.’
‘All I was trying to say,’ he went on after he’d drained his glass, ‘is that it’s lovely to see someone at a wedding wear so much colour.’ He glanced around the table at the men in their neat black suits and the women in their pastel dresses, then smiled loosely. ‘You’re like a butterfly at a picnic, Miss Okomma.’
When he put down his glass, I arched an eyebrow. ‘Are you drunk, Sir?’
He looked stunned, then flushed again when he went to take a sip from his champagne glass and realised it was empty. ‘Absolutely not, Miss Okomma,’ he said in that way I do when my father asks if the dress I’ve bought is expensive and I lie and say it was on sale. ‘That would be horribly inappropriate, wouldn’t it?’
I thought it best to leave it.
‘So what happens at a Hindu wedding, then?’
His eyes lit up and while we ate our starter, he told me everything he knew about Hindu weddings between mouthfuls of asparagus (which was an astonishing amount, actually) and concluded that they sounded like the Igbo ones he’d read about.
‘I guess.’ I told him with a shrug. ‘They’re just as loud and colourful, but the last few I went to weren’t much different to this one.’
He seemed disappointed. ‘Really? There was no wine carrying?’
‘What do you know about wine carrying?’
‘I know things.’ He lifted his chin smugly. ‘Like before the wedding, the groom and his elders have to settle on the bride’s price with the bride’s father –’ He was clearly horrified by that and I interrupted with a laugh.
‘It’s symbolic. Anaghi alusi nwaanyi alusi, we say.’
He frowned. ‘What does that mean?’
‘It means that the worth of a woman cannot be quantified in material terms.’
‘Yeah. But you still do it, right?’
‘True,’ I conceded with another shrug. ‘But no one’s being sold for a cow.’
‘Fair enough.’ He chuckled. ‘Then there’s the wedding ceremony, the Igba Nwku,’ he sounded so proud of himself. I almost applauded. ‘It begins with a dance—’
I stopped him again. ‘The boiled eggs are symbolic as well.’
‘I know.’ He feigned indignation, pushing his glasses back up his nose and
he did it on purpose this time. ‘The bride selling them to her guests symbolises that she will be able to support herself and her family if needed.’
I laughed and shook my head. I don’t know what website he’d found, but he’d memorised it. He sounded like he was reciting his eight times table.
‘Then the bride’s father gives the bride a wooden cup—’
‘What’s it called?’ I interrupted and I shouldn’t have, but I couldn’t resist teasing him a little as he stared at me, his lips parted.
‘It’s a –’ he clicked his fingers – ‘a –’
‘You’re going to have to do more than check Wikipedia to get a decent grade, Mr Lucas,’ I tutted, parroting what he tells us in class every week.
‘It’s a –’
‘An iko.’
He slapped his thigh, furious as the waiter refilled his glass. ‘An iko!’
‘None for you, Mr Lucas.’
‘I knew that!’ he hissed, knocking back another mouthful of champagne.
‘Then what happens?’ I said, giving him an opportunity to redeem himself.
His shoulders slumped. ‘Then the bride’s father gives the bride the iko, which is filled with palm wine, while the groom hides among the guests. The wedding isn’t official until the bride finds her groom, offers him a sip of the palm wine and he drinks from the cup,’ he muttered without as much feeling.
‘You forgot the dance.’
‘No! I didn’t! You just didn’t give me a chance.’ He pointed at me. ‘Then they dance and the guests throw money around them or put bills on their foreheads.’
‘Too late. You’d better check Wikipedia again before you speak to Nishad.’
‘Dammit! I had this yesterday. Champagne makes me stupid,’ he muttered, stopping to drain his glass. ‘I’m going to do this tomorrow, aren’t I? I’m going to get up to read my poem, completely forget it, then have to do my Homer impression.’
‘You should do that anyway.’
‘Don’t. I’m so nervous.’