Its three now months that I’ve been dating Yomi, two months since he proposed so dramatically and all my dreams about marriage were about to come true. I’m now on one tabloid or the other, from City People to Encomium to Saturday Punch. I’m on Linda Ikeji’s blog and Bellanaija. And when they put pictures of me up, I’m not referred to as Tiwa Savage and “guest” in the pictures I appear. Now they know my name. A picture containing Toke and I was tagged as Oyin Clegg and Friend. Toke was mad en, but my profile was hyped plenty (just kidding o). And for all those who were wondering about Yomi’s prowess in bed, let me just tell you that in spite of my (vast) experience, I was surprised that I always seemed to have one thing or the other to learn each time we were in bed.
When Yomi’s people came for the formal introduction, my mother did it like it was the actual engagement. Aso Ebi, souvenirs, photobook and co. She pulled all the stops, and she had every reason to. When they said she should pray, mumsy nearly embarrassed me with all the song and prayer drama. That my mama, she can be a drama queen. Not one to delay, and as money was not a constraint and we both are not kids, we set wedding date for a month later, about a week after his birthday. We intended to start the wedding celebrations with his birthday party and end it with a one of a kind reception bash. As my mama put it, aiye a gbo, orun a mo (translated – the world will hear and the heavens will know).
My greatest fear had been whether Yomi’s family would accept me. Would they like me? I was doing very well on my own, but all these pedigree families always want their sons to marry from their world, especially when he was an only son. And sisters can be so totally mean to whichever girl comes into the life of their only brother.
All my fears were unfounded. They all seemed glad and relieved that Yomi was finally about to settle down, and that he was not going to marry any of his Jamaican, Puerto Rican, French or Italian babes. I felt lucky and blessed. I reminisced on the many disappointments on my journey here. The many reasons I hadn’t gotten married – one I had loved that couldn’t perform in bed. One that thought his wife was meant to be the indentured servant of his lordship. One that wanted me to marry only dreams and talk of great futures. And plenty other orisirisi.
I shall not bore you with the plenty activities that went into the weeks preceding the wedding week. Suffice to say I almost became a bridezilla, armed with my copy of Funke Buknor-Obruthe’s book. By the day of Yomi’s birthday party, I was exhausted, and had been ordered by Yomi to hands off the wedding preparations or there’d be no me left for him to marry.
The birthday party was a blast. We held it at Yomi’s house on Gerard Road in Ikoyi. The house was one of those colonial houses that had a vast compound, a driveway with trees that touched way up in the middle, shielding the sun away and a huge pool. When you live in those kinds of houses in Ikoyi, you had to be old Lagos money, very old money. And this would be my new home soon. I was already trying my hands on marshalling the staff that oversaw the property, no mean feat. By evening when the party began, I was already tired from all the organizing.
See, rich people know how to party. Rich people’s kids are on another level of knowing how to party, maybe because they are not the ones that made the money they spend on the parties. It was at this party that I first met Yomi’s best man. While Yomi was all stability and fun, Adamu was excitement and daredevil adrenaline personified. He wasn’t your typical northerner, his accent was not there at all, and he had those fine Fulani features that money and breeding accentuated further. Where Yomi was dark chocolate, he was yummy butter. And like all of Yomi’s friends I had met, he was into everything that spun money and was mega rich.
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