The story of my parents’ marriage goes thus:

Boy meets girl during lunch break. He, a

government worker, and she, a seller of formal

clothes for workers of such establishments.

Her trick was simple: compel them to buy on credit

for a little over the market price, then return early

on payday to collect. Upon the meet, at one glance

at seller, boy decides negotiations need to transcend

the business of garments and recompense.

But their contrast was stark, gargantuan even:

origin, language, sophistication, and standing.

Only creed and English seemed to be their allies.

Yet affection thrived and with time, after girl’s

consultations with her people, who refused

because they knew nothing of boy’s people, Yorubas:

how do they live? How do they treat women? Would

they prevent their daughter from visiting after marriage?

There was also the perennial question of language. All these

her mother heaved in her face. But for girl’s father, the more

practical of her parents, and for whom people are simply people.

He insisted he sees boy before anything else. The day came

and all were left bemused at how boy, a bearded, bespectacled

has-been, robed in layers and layers of brocade agbada,

went flat on the earth-stained village cement floor in prostration

to salute the elders. This was strange to their Igbo senses.

That sealed it. Girl’s father gave his blessings. And then to his wife

he said: this one will treat our daughter kindly, and will not keep

her away from us, as for language, we will find a middle ground.