My pleasure
Photo: Angèle Kamp
As the sun streamed through the stained glass windows, it produced a kaleidoscope of colours on the terrazzo floors that was so beautiful that it made her wonder why church architecture tended towards the artful. It meant she could almost never focus on the matter at hand.
She had attended too many of these events, she thought, though this one meant more than the others. It was him after all. The one her mum always teased her about. The one over whom she knocked out Kemi's teeth in SS2. As kids, they’d always joked about being at each other's weddings. She wouldn't have guessed it would be this way. Then, again, she wouldn't have it any other way.
She glanced down the middle of the church at the double doors, and imagined what he'd look like when he walked in. She didn't need to though; she had drawn up the picture herself. All those trips to the tailors for selections, for measurements, for fittings. It had to be perfect. And it was going to be.
She imagined what would go through his mind as he strolled down the length of the rose petal strewn aisle, past their friends, past their family, all the way to where she stood. Would he catch her eye or train his gaze at a vague spot beyond her space? Would his pace quicken in excitement or would it slow in a bid to savour the experience? After all, this happens once in a lifetime, supposedly.
She considered her feelings at that moment and searched for any emotions appropriate to what transpired in the last twenty-four hours but came up short. There was no guilt, no remorse. Even more curiously, no sense of loss. Then she smiled. She smiled because there were approximately two hundred people dressed in their Sunday best, complete with elaborate geles, that were staring at her. Were it not so, maybe she'd have cried.
Yes, an excuse for last night could've been alcohol, but he didn't push back when she kissed him in that moment of feigned excitement. He gave in almost as though he had expected it, which annoyed her slightly. It was too easy and nothing good ever comes easy; everyone knows that. What ensued was quick and sweaty, peppered with exaggerated moans, and ended in a tearful climax. His to be sure. He felt horrible, he said, which angered her. It was the night before his wedding, he wailed. So she cooed and rocked him to sleep like only she knew how to do. And she wondered why she had bothered in the first place.
Even now, she knew she looked odd as the lady in the groomsmen. Even more unusual was her role as best (wo)man. She took in the crowd, settled on her boyfriend's face beaming at her from the second pew and realised that though he didn't know it then, sat there like a well-fed cat, he'd be very single by Tuesday. Poor thing.
A flurry of whispers spread through the church, breaking her reverie. The pianist picked up a familiar tune. She looked up at the doors and watched him emerge from what seemed like a ball of light. Something truly magical about the Lagos sun in January. She had done a great job with his suit, she thought. Even his shoes were magnificent. He had the gait of a prince, and he walked through the kaleidoscope like the star of the show. He caught her eyes as he came to stand in front of her. Smelling like the first rain after the dry season, he leaned into her and whispered: "Thank you for last night." She smiled widely, despite herself, and decided there and then that this was the last day they would ever see each other. She reached out to straighten his bow tie. "My pleasure. Now, let's get you married. She'll be here any minute." He turned to the expectant crowd and even with his back to her, she could see his chest swell with a nervous breath.
The sun was streaming through the stained glass, and it was a truly beautiful day—as good a day as any for a fool to love.