Akuko!’, I muttered to myself, as he went on about some global incident.
That is what the Igbos say when a discussion is beginning to enter voicemail. If you know me, you can sense when I’m not interested in something and it gets worse because when I begin to lose my patience, I make it obvious I want to be left alone.
For a 36-year-old woman in Nigeria, the first heat of the year is turned on as February 14th approaches. The matchmaking begins in December during the festivities and your parents draw up a calendar to make sure you keep in touch with prospects from last season. They send you a dress and a chauffeur, just in case any of the dudes from Christmas remembers to call for dinner on D-day.
This has been my life since I turned 30 but this year, I have made up my mind to give them a husband, so my mummy doesn’t die from fasting. Here, I am, seated with the weirdest childhood friend. You know that shy one that used to cry when the boys tease him? The one you’ll have to console as mucus runs down his nose while you use the tip of your skirt to clean it as you hide your disgust.
Well, this is he except that this time, he’s all manned up and with an accent. ‘Abeg, no dey form’, I told him as I gave the waiter my Sterling card to pay. He handed it back and paid in my stead and right now as I size him up like Daphne, he’s certainly not the guy I used to know.
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In a few minutes, we’ll be out of here and I’m not sure where we’re headed but this time, my guards are down. I needed to give them what they wanted but I realize now that I too want him, and this must be the end of my quest.
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