A Single Woman’s Dilemma – Eva’s Story (Part 1)

As I walked into the gathering, silver stilettos against the white washed marble floors, I feel the nerves coursing through me. Why does this always happen? I’m an adult but some how, these family events have me feeling like that shy little girl in the sea of faces, unsure of myself and how I’m supposed to act.

I know the questions will come, they always do and I have to figure out the best way to answer them without offending anyone or incurring the wrath of my parents.

We are all here to celebrate Uncle Donald’s wedding. He is the last of my uncles to get married and the family had decided to turn it into a big affair. For one thing, Aunty Prisca, his eldest sister had created two Whatsapp groups for family members to discuss different aspects of the wedding. I had been mute as you’d expect until she started sending me personal messages, which I couldn’t avoid.

Thank God the wedding day is finally here and we can now rest. I should probably tell you a little bit about my extended family. We are a huge and noisy lot but generally mean well. I have three uncles and two aunts on my Mum’s side and three aunties on my Dad’s side. Okay, we mean well when you choose to ignore the petty skirmishes, the lies and competition. But I guess this happens in every family.

Uncle Donald is my mum’s youngest brother. My mum is the fourth of six children and they are all particularly close, always ready to celebrate and support each other.

I really do love them, in my own way, but I can’t deny that many times they drive me crazy. In order to maintain my sanity, I had decided to only attend the reception. You may think this was too much but it was for the best. Perhaps, one of my best decisions to date.

I don’t really like weddings, not for the reasons you may think, the services are usually long, with one-sided advice for the married couple (I have heard too many priests direct that the wife to submit but not enough about the husband’s need to love) and I usually feel self-conscious. Think about it, beyond those who are close to the couple, the church services are usually filled with married people, a lot of couples and not enough of the singles.

The venue is beautifully decorated in the couple’s color of peach and cream, with cream tablecloths and peach accents, which sparkle under the shimmering light of the chandeliers hanging overhead. They had chosen one of the new event halls in Ikeja, Lagos with the cream-colored satin ceiling coverings and marble tiled walls.

Aunty Prisca had selected peach and purple material for all the family members, telling us that it would complement the wedding colors and of course she was right, she is the go to person for fashion and every thing under the sun. I take in the hum of activity at reception. Waiters skirting round guests with trays held at a precarious angles, ushers waiting by the doors to lead us to our seats. Since, I’m wearing the family colors, I head on straight to the front of the hall.

I look around for any of my siblings or my cousin, Linda. My parents had gone ahead with my younger sisters, Ashley and Ugomma. Unlike me, they hadn’t had much of a choice. One of the few times where being the eldest was an advantage. At 27, my parents believe I am old enough to not only make most of my decisions but to deal with the consequences.

“Hello, are you with the bride or groom?”

I’m interrupted from my reverie by a young lady in a short sleeved, peach colored knee length dress, she is looking at me and smiling. She’s standing by the side of the walkway close to the front of the hall. For a minute, I’m not even sure of what she’s asking.

I look down at my dress and respond, “with the groom”.

She nods and points to the right side of the hall. As I follow her hand, I see my parents and sisters, seating at a table on the second row. A few of my other relatives are at the same table.

When I get to the table, I greet my parents. My mum looks at her wristwatch and shakes her head. Nothing unusual. This is her way of reminding me that, once again, I had done wrong. I look at her and force myself to smile. With my mum, you can never do the right thing; there will always be something. I’m often told I look like her and a part of me wishes I didn’t. She is beautiful and looks particularly good today with her purple head tie expertly tied, by her, and her asoebi in the mermaid style she often favours. My mum is quite tall 5’8. I am just an inch taller but often wear really high heels so I tower over her. Since I turned 24, she has been making side comments about me dating and settling down. The other day, she reminded me that at my age, she had already been married and had given birth to her first child, me.

I had felt so inadequate and like a total disappointment. Sometimes, I wonder if she just likes making people feel terrible about themselves. She is always quick to remind us of way’s we failed or of our weaknesses. She knew I had gone through a bad break up years before and I was still trying to find myself before dating again. At the time, she had seemed concerned but soon enough, she was back to counting down.

Thank God for my Dad, l look over at him, with his full cheeks and sunny attitude, he always looks like his smiling and most times, he is. He’s always trying to douse the tension at home, a willing and patient mediator. I often wonder how two very different people could have lived together this long.

I tap my sisters on their shoulders as I head over to the other side of the table, they are engrossed in a conversation, as the last two and closer in age, they are usually together and I don’t mind this except during moments like this. I force the smile back on my face as I greet my Mum’s sister, Aunt Felicia, her husband Uncle Stanley and their only child, Chidnma. Aunt Felicia is one of those aunties who is forever praying for everyone. She is very optimistic and believes that things will work out.

“Evie, nwa’m, kedu?” said Aunt Felicia (as she greets me fondly, in Igbo)

“Aunty, I’m fine.” How are you doing? You look very pretty.” I say. And it’s true. She seemed to have made an effort today. Probably trying to avoid drama from Aunt Prisca who had warned us to dress to the nines.

“Thank you, my dear. This will be you soon o. We will come and celebrate you and your husband.” As she says this, she looks over to my parents. My Dad chuckles and nods while my mum smiles tightly.

“Amen o. May God hear our prayers.” My mum responds, with her hands lifted and the sleeve of her dress hanging precariously over the wine glass by her side.

I also greet their daughter, whose attention has been fixed on her phone screen. She is only 16 but has more liberties than all of us children put together. She doesn’t even lift her head as I speak to her. She just nods and mumbles something under her breadth. I look over her shoulder and notice the tell tale signs of a popular social media platform. I wondered what Aunt Felicia would say if she knew what her daughter was doing. She would probably deny it.

As I walk to the empty seat beside Ugomma, I feel my mother’s eyes on me. She looks at my dress but says nothing. While adjusting my seat, I hear the words I had been dreading.

“Remember to go to the other tables and greet your family? Have you seen Aunty Prisca?” She says, looking at me intently, almost as if she is daring me to question her.

Why did she have to remind me? She knew how I felt about Aunty Prisca, the one person I was on a mission to avoid.

* This post is purely fiction and is not based on anyone living or deceased.