Mama told me this was the happiest day of her life. Even though I wasn't born yet, I can almost see it, feel it. The morning sun spilling gold across Abeokuta, painting the red earth and zinc rooftops like a promise. She said the street was alive before the heat even settled, with the talking drums announcing something important. "E kaaro o!(Good morning ). Tthe drums say something big is coming," she used to laugh, and I can hear it still.
Women moved under the decorated canopy like a field of flowers; purple, gold, and deep green fabrics shimmering as the sun struck them. Some adjusted their geles (head ties), others whispered and laughed, their voices rising above the hum of the generator. The smell of jollof rice over firewood mingled with fried meat and pepper soup, creating a scent that made her stomach growl despite her nerves.
Children ran between plastic chairs, slippers slapping against the dusty ground. One boy held a half-eaten piece of meat and ran, thinking it might be stolen. Mama laughed at his antics from the cooking area, scolding, "That one na for elders o, bring am back!"
From a distance, Olumo Rock watched quietly, as it had for generations. Under its shadow, a marriage was about to begin, though Mama didn't know yet how life would weave joy and sorrow together for her.
Inside the bride's room, Mama said it was warm, crowded, and smelled of powder and perfume. Funmilayo, my mother, sat on a wooden chair near the mirror, her back straight, hands resting carefully on her lap. Her friends struggled with her gele.
"Don't pull it too tight," she murmured.
One of the girls hissed, "If it falls during the ceremony, don't blame me o." Another giggled and said in pidgin, "Let it fall. Maybe her husband go think say she dey rush to go with am."
Mama said she could feel the teasing echoing even now in my memory, the nerves, the excitement. Her heart beat faster with every minute passing. This was the day she had dreamed about, yet she felt tightness in her chest, a mix of anticipation and fear.
An older aunt entered, holding a small box of jewelry. "Move, move. Let me see my daughter," she said, pushing the girls gently aside. Coral beads were placed around Mama's neck slowly, each bead a silent blessing.
"Oriire o, you look beautiful. Your husband will be very proud to see his wife looking so beautiful on such a special day like this," she whispered.
Then came a knock at the door. Mama's mother called her away, and they moved to a quieter corner. I imagine her heart heavy as she sat on the wooden bench, the morning light hitting the red dust outside.
"My daughter," her mother began, "today you dey leave this house as wife."
Mama nodded, speechless.
"Marriage no dey always sweet," her mother continued. "Some days, you go dey wonder why you say yes. Days of silence, anger, tears."
A tear slipped down Mama's cheek. Her mother wiped it away gently. "Go and build your own home, my daughter. Respect your husband, speak gently, and remember, no house is free from smoke."
Outside, the drums grew louder. The convoy of cars carrying Babatunde, my dad, and his family arrived. Men stepped out first, laughing and adjusting caps; women followed in matching outfits, dancing gracefully. Babatunde wore a cream agbada, simple but elegant. Even in the middle of celebration, Mama said he had a quiet confidence, a soft smile reserved only for her.
He helped an elderly man climb down, nodding gently. Mama remembered thinking, "This one dey soft inside, but him strong well well." Some aunties whispered and chuckled among themselves, "That one dey calm. Hope he go dey calm for marriage too."
The traditional rites began: kneeling, greeting elders, laughter, clapping. Trays of kola nuts, yams, bottles of wine, and fabrics were presented. One auntie pretended to inspect the gifts, feigning seriousness. "Is this all you bring for our daughter?" she asked dramatically. Laughter followed. Babatunde lowered his head with respect: "She is worth more than all these things."
Mama said there was a moment when everyone laughed and danced, spraying crisp Naira notes into the air. She felt the warmth of the celebration. The sun on her skin, the rhythmic gangan, the scent of food, the vibrant colors, but what stayed with her most was Babatunde's gaze. A smile meant only for her, soft and private, full of promise.
"I feel like my heart is on a race," she whispered.
"Mine too," he said. "It's just you and me. We will build our own world, one day at a time."
Mama didn't know then how brief that joy would be. I, Iremide, remember the story of that day, how colors, smells, laughter, and love blurred into a warm, golden memory that even life's storms couldn't completely dim.