“Chelsea vs Manchester United”, a boldly written inscription on a wall in one of the houses on a street. "Wow! What are you waiting for?" (i soliloquized) I made to walk in, but almost immediately, like an unusual coincidence, a charming, feminine structure came out of the house. Trekking majestically; with her catchy curves struggling to puff out of her dress. "It will be a miss of the century if I do not make this bold step". Like every other avid admirer; within few minutes, caught up with her to at least exchange pleasantries. "Boredom! You are finished".

“Hi, cute lady,” I said, sauntering up to her. “My name is Legend Ben, but friends call me Lege B.” “Oh!” she exclaimed, slowing down and turning to look at me. “That is cool. How may I be of help?” she answered in the affirmative,  sounding like the voice of the American Rihanna. “I like to know you better, and would love to say you are an epitome of beauty with a sweet stature, posture, coupled with your angelic voice that no man would want to resist”. “Thanks”, she beamed with chuckles.

Expectedly, there was chemistry, the genesis of a cordial bond was established. We shared exciting words via text messages, late night calls, visited cinemas, football stadiums, etc. Our love had no bounds, even birds of the air knew us as best of friends. In the course of this ‘lovy-dovy’ affair, I had totally forgotten the words of my late mother.

Simultaneously, calendar months and years walked side by side, as days flew like kites. The plan for tying the knots began. First was the conventional conjugal bliss. Kolanuts, honey, groundnuts, bitter kola lay side by side on the table, showing a repertoire common at African marriage ceremonies. High Chiefs, dressed in gowns with red caps sitting comfortably on their different heads and soon the occasion kick-started.

Interestingly, the time for dancing came, in which men, women, even boys and girls flaunted their prolific dancing flairs. The gorgeously dressed women shook their butts continuously to the rhythm of the songs, contagiously pushing the ever-ready men to upping their game by jumping frontwards, back and sideways acrobatically in a bid to beat the women. Moving seemingly charged legs one by each rhythmically, and with flutes on their hands, nodding their heads like Agama Lizards, they played in the traditional tune common to the Eastern part of Nigeria where they were from, making the occasion a worthwhile experience.

The climax of the event came when my charming, ever-smiling bride was to present a drink to her supposedly known groom, while she walked from one tent to another, some of the seated men stretched out their arms as if to confuse her of whom her would-be groom is. Some even sang songs to divert her attention, but at long last she got to me, knelt down and stretched forth her arms, I collected the drink, drank with pride and the crowd responded with a thunderous round of applause.

This followed with a holy matrimony at her parent church where we tied the knots amid several men and women of substance ranging from Ambassadors, University Pro-Chancellors, Chief Executive Officers of multinational companies and other government functionaries.

Euphorically, like the small end pot of the rainbow has more significance than the entire rainbow, my mind flashed back to her words “My son, do not, for any reason marry from the eastern part of the country . . . I asked myself “Against her wish”?

Bankole Kolawole (stage name: BankHALL) is a poet/essayist, spoken word artiste and a graduate of Accountancy based in Lagos- Nigeria. He’s the convener of SOS Poetry Slam (Nigeria).