One time, my African Auntie swore she found the right man for me. It was my Grandmother’s burial. The extended family had gathered for a full-blown Yoruba funeral. Aunty Yemisi, my aunt with a deep scar on her forehead, which she got in one of the numerous fights she used to have in the neighbourhood with women with whom her husband was frolicking, was the first to ask if I knew that time was no longer on my side, and I needed to get married.
“I haven’t found the one yet, but as soon as I do, we’ll throw a party,” I responded reluctantly.
“Hope you’re not selecting?” She asked.
“Aunty, I’m not selecting. But I have preferences.”
She clapped her hands in the dramatic, African-style way. “I knew it. You’re discriminating. What if the will of God for you is a short man?”
“That’s not the will of God for me o,” I muttered.
“Keep looking for a tall, dark and handsome man, then.” She said, walking away, still muttering words under her breath.
While I danced at the party, I caught her gaze fixed on me every minute.
After the party, I gave in and asked if she had anyone in mind she would like to introduce to me. A bold smile was displayed on her face. “You children of nowadays, I don’t want your problems. Are you sure you don’t mind?”
“I don’t mind, Aunty,” I replied.
She hurriedly brought out her phone from the corner of her bag and showed the picture of a man she described as the youth pastor of her church and the most honest man she’d ever come across.
“This man is not my type at all,” I said, shaking my head in disapproval.
“What do you mean? Your mates are married, and you’re still here acting like you’re Miss World. Is it until you’re 40?”
“It’s not like I don’t like him, it’s just that he’s bald and I don’t like my men bald.”
“You don’t like your men bald? Anyone who heard you would think you have them in large numbers. Do you want his phone number or not?” She asked, like she was giving me an ultimatum.
“I want,” I said, humbly. She happily shared his mobile number with me, but not without leaving me with a piece of advice. “Don’t forget to be humble. Women who are looking to marry need to be humble until they marry.”
I nodded my head in agreement.
After a few days, Shina and I began to have phone conversations to get to know each other better. He would call me at night, and when I mentioned that I was going to bed, he would respond, “Only lazy women sleep early. What will we do when we start having babies?”
I always chucked in response.
One night, he asked me to stand in front of the phone during a video call, like it was one of those matchmaking sessions on TikTok. I did, because I needed to follow Aunty Yemisi’s advice.
“I like what I see,” he said with a smile. Every time he said this, I murmured, “I don’t like what I see.”
Aunty Yemisi had sworn that when I met Shina in person, I would fall in love with him. So I looked forward to our meeting.
We were meeting at a fine dining restaurant in Victoria Island. I had dressed gorgeously to meet him that evening. I was stepping out of my apartment when I got a text from him, “Don’t drive your car down here. You know I don’t have a car, and it would be disrespectful. Just take the bus, I’ll pay your transport fare.”
I dialled Aunty Yemisi’s phone number after reading his texts. I explained his various actions and told her I can’t cope with it. But her only response shocked me.
“Are you not ready to marry?”
“If this is what marriage is like, then I’ll die single!” I responded.
“Ah! God forbid o,” she screamed over the phone.
I replied, “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”
I ended the call and returned to my flat. I changed into my lounge wear and started a limited series on my TV.
Hours later, I received a text from Shina: “You’re a very disrespectful woman. I can’t believe you stood me up! You’ll never find a man who would marry you.” Aunty Yemisi’s scar serves as proof that she’s not qualified to counsel me about marriage, but it took me a long time to realise it. I don’t want reminders like that in the name of marriage.
I deleted Shina’s number and blocked him.
