Happy Anniversary
“Biwom, wake up!”, I heard my cousin call out to me in my sleep. “You need to wake up and start getting ready. Your make-up artist is downstairs.”. As I heard her speak from behind my the door to my room, I looked at my clock. It was 6:30am. I could already hear our house buzzing with activity. Usually, the house was quiet at this time. But today was different. It was my wedding day. I got up and headed straight to the shower. When I came out, I threw on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. Then, I opened the door. My make-up artist was waiting, standing next to my cousin. She came inside and started arranging her array of cosmetics, most of which I had never seen before, nor had any clue how to use them. My mum walked in the room and found me sitting in the chair and the make-up artist prepping me for my transformation. My mum beamed. She was happy.
Then came the photographer. He was such a jolly good fellow. Very handsome and courteous young man. We had met a few times and he promised me he was going to do his best work. I trusted him. He walked into my room and found my dress and shoes hanging from the wardrobe. He arranged them in a way that made sense to produce the kind of picture he had in mind. Then he took a picture of both, side by side, as I watched on. He asked for the rings, and I provided. He photographed them too. Then, his attention shifted to me. I became the subject of his camera. He took pictures from every angle imaginable, sometimes assuming rather awkward positions in a bid to capture moments he believed were happy ones.
“Where is the gele woman?”, I heard my sister ask. It was eight A.M The wedding was scheduled for ten A.M and the gele woman was not yet around to fix up the head-ties of the women in my family who had opted to wear traditional outfits to a white wedding. About thirty minutes later, the gele woman showed up, much to everyone's relief. My mother was the first on the queue. Relatives from other cities had travelled to attend my wedding, and they all wanted to wear traditional outfits that day. Before I knew it, there were about twenty other women waiting to have their geles tied. I was done with make-up and the make-up artist was attending to my female relatives who were interested in that sort of thing. In a very rare move, I had fixed false nails the previous day. It was the only the second time I had done such in my life and on the morning of the wedding, all made up and looking dainty, I felt awkward. But it was supposed to be my happiest day, so I kept up my spirits and pushed through.
9:30am. My aunt was helping me wear my dress. That dress. I was not into dresses but even I LOVED it. It was truly beautiful. In preparation for the wedding, I had taken two weeks off work and traveled to Los Angeles, California, to shop for wedding stuff, including my dress and rings. My good friend, Roses, whose sister was contracted with baking our wedding cake, offered to help me during my time in LA. It was her city and she was very familiar with the inner workings of the town so she knew where to take me to find what I was looking for. She took me to a small “mom and pop” shop in the less busy part of LA. We walked into the store, and were welcomed with smiles. The lady who attends to us was elderly. She looked at me and brought out three dresses she believed was what I was looking for. The last one called out to me, and I knew it was the one. It was ivory, with beads and pearls all the way to the bottom of the dress. I tried it on and fell in love with the way it higlighted my curves. That was all the confirmation I needed. I paid for the dress happily and on this day of the wedding, I knew I had not made a mistake.
10:00am. I was fully dressed. My room was full of family and friends paying me compliments and congratulating me. The photographer was having field day. He could not stop taking pictures, and would smile with each shot as though he was pleased with every image of me that appeared on his camera review screen. I could not blame him. I managed to glance in the mirror before walking out the door, and I when I saw my reflection, all I had to say was “Chai!” LOL!
My bridesmaids, little bride and groom, flower girls, and plenty well-wishers escorted me to the car. Everyone was looking astonishing. My chief bridesmaid, who is also one of my closest cousins, was visibly overjoyed for me. She understood her job that day and performed it with glee. She made sure my dress did not get dirty, while ensuring that I did not tumble down the many stairs leading to where the car was parked. If she could have rolled out a red carpet that day, I believe she would have. She was my protector, guard, and did everything she could to keep me glammed-up.
We got to the church at about 10:30am. The groom was already there, waiting anxiously for me to show up. He looked dashing in his black tuxedo, white shirt, pink vest, and a pink tie. The priest who was presiding over mass that day was a very close family friend, Father Toby. Oh, I loved him. He was one of the kindest people I had ever met. I had known Father Toby since I was about 6 years old - all my life. He was our parish priest when my family lived in Calabar. Then he became a family friend and he has stuck around every since, refusing to cut ties with neither myself nor our family. It was an honour for him to wed us. He always thought very highly of me, and on that day he made sure everyone knew exactly how proud he was of me. He wedded us in a very happy and joyous ceremony. It was a beautiful day.
**********************************************
Today would have been our sixth wedding anniversary. In the midst of all happening that day, I remember being mostly numb. What was more exciting to me was that I was the centre of attention. It was good to see everyone look happy and glamourous. They were proud of me. They had travelled far and wide to witness this day and it was happening because of me. At the end of the show, the curtains were drawn, and I was left alone in what was to become my new home. Reality began to set in.
I had been lesbian the whole time, even before meeting Fabian. The girl I was dating at the time was also married, yet we were still dating, and very much in love. She became my inspiration and even though I knew she was very unhappy in her marriage, I somehow believed that I could also be married, date her, and be happy. Just like she was doing.
But I quickly realised that the life I was planning, was not the life I wanted for myself. I wanted truth. I wanted 'real'. And that was not it.
Then came the photographer. He was such a jolly good fellow. Very handsome and courteous young man. We had met a few times and he promised me he was going to do his best work. I trusted him. He walked into my room and found my dress and shoes hanging from the wardrobe. He arranged them in a way that made sense to produce the kind of picture he had in mind. Then he took a picture of both, side by side, as I watched on. He asked for the rings, and I provided. He photographed them too. Then, his attention shifted to me. I became the subject of his camera. He took pictures from every angle imaginable, sometimes assuming rather awkward positions in a bid to capture moments he believed were happy ones.
“Where is the gele woman?”, I heard my sister ask. It was eight A.M The wedding was scheduled for ten A.M and the gele woman was not yet around to fix up the head-ties of the women in my family who had opted to wear traditional outfits to a white wedding. About thirty minutes later, the gele woman showed up, much to everyone's relief. My mother was the first on the queue. Relatives from other cities had travelled to attend my wedding, and they all wanted to wear traditional outfits that day. Before I knew it, there were about twenty other women waiting to have their geles tied. I was done with make-up and the make-up artist was attending to my female relatives who were interested in that sort of thing. In a very rare move, I had fixed false nails the previous day. It was the only the second time I had done such in my life and on the morning of the wedding, all made up and looking dainty, I felt awkward. But it was supposed to be my happiest day, so I kept up my spirits and pushed through.
9:30am. My aunt was helping me wear my dress. That dress. I was not into dresses but even I LOVED it. It was truly beautiful. In preparation for the wedding, I had taken two weeks off work and traveled to Los Angeles, California, to shop for wedding stuff, including my dress and rings. My good friend, Roses, whose sister was contracted with baking our wedding cake, offered to help me during my time in LA. It was her city and she was very familiar with the inner workings of the town so she knew where to take me to find what I was looking for. She took me to a small “mom and pop” shop in the less busy part of LA. We walked into the store, and were welcomed with smiles. The lady who attends to us was elderly. She looked at me and brought out three dresses she believed was what I was looking for. The last one called out to me, and I knew it was the one. It was ivory, with beads and pearls all the way to the bottom of the dress. I tried it on and fell in love with the way it higlighted my curves. That was all the confirmation I needed. I paid for the dress happily and on this day of the wedding, I knew I had not made a mistake.
10:00am. I was fully dressed. My room was full of family and friends paying me compliments and congratulating me. The photographer was having field day. He could not stop taking pictures, and would smile with each shot as though he was pleased with every image of me that appeared on his camera review screen. I could not blame him. I managed to glance in the mirror before walking out the door, and I when I saw my reflection, all I had to say was “Chai!” LOL!
My bridesmaids, little bride and groom, flower girls, and plenty well-wishers escorted me to the car. Everyone was looking astonishing. My chief bridesmaid, who is also one of my closest cousins, was visibly overjoyed for me. She understood her job that day and performed it with glee. She made sure my dress did not get dirty, while ensuring that I did not tumble down the many stairs leading to where the car was parked. If she could have rolled out a red carpet that day, I believe she would have. She was my protector, guard, and did everything she could to keep me glammed-up.
We got to the church at about 10:30am. The groom was already there, waiting anxiously for me to show up. He looked dashing in his black tuxedo, white shirt, pink vest, and a pink tie. The priest who was presiding over mass that day was a very close family friend, Father Toby. Oh, I loved him. He was one of the kindest people I had ever met. I had known Father Toby since I was about 6 years old - all my life. He was our parish priest when my family lived in Calabar. Then he became a family friend and he has stuck around every since, refusing to cut ties with neither myself nor our family. It was an honour for him to wed us. He always thought very highly of me, and on that day he made sure everyone knew exactly how proud he was of me. He wedded us in a very happy and joyous ceremony. It was a beautiful day.
**********************************************
Today would have been our sixth wedding anniversary. In the midst of all happening that day, I remember being mostly numb. What was more exciting to me was that I was the centre of attention. It was good to see everyone look happy and glamourous. They were proud of me. They had travelled far and wide to witness this day and it was happening because of me. At the end of the show, the curtains were drawn, and I was left alone in what was to become my new home. Reality began to set in.
I had been lesbian the whole time, even before meeting Fabian. The girl I was dating at the time was also married, yet we were still dating, and very much in love. She became my inspiration and even though I knew she was very unhappy in her marriage, I somehow believed that I could also be married, date her, and be happy. Just like she was doing.
But I quickly realised that the life I was planning, was not the life I wanted for myself. I wanted truth. I wanted 'real'. And that was not it.
Oh my!I can't imagine what you went through having to live as someone that wasn't you.
ReplyDeleteI remember, bare feet and all. Including the picture time on the side just before the bridal party danced into the reception hall...
ReplyDeleteStill pinch myself sometimes, but this isn't my story ☺