The Wedding Bell
Join our protagonist as she navigates the emotional rollercoaster of wedding planning and meeting her in-laws in this relatable and honest account. From dress shopping to family reunions, this story explores the challenges and joys of tying the knot while staying true to oneself. Don’t miss this tale of love, compromise, and self-discovery.
"The wedding bell is supposed to be exciting.
But it isn’t for me. A Rollercoaster of Emotions”
As I stood in front of the mirror, I couldn’t help but feel a wave of anxiety wash over me. I had always been one of the most flawless girls during my university days in Preston. But now, as I stood there, I conceded that being flawless was not enough to prepare me for the rollercoaster ride that was planning a wedding.
Nobody told me that wedding preparation and meeting families are not for the faint-hearted. It is annoying to have to compromise on the best decision because my in-laws aren’t happy.
Or should I talk about my face breaking out? I’m still looking for the best makeover. A lot is happening at the same time, like a rollercoaster. Or should I talk about my mother wanting to plan the wedding?
What would the wedding planner do? It’s just a small gathering of 1500 individuals who loved us, and we loved each other. “Mummy, you called 1500 just. Why can we have just 200 people, 100 from each family?” I exclaimed. My mother rolled her eyes.
“Have you forgotten I’m a professor at a university? No way; all the associates are coming. I don’t ask you to pay for anything.”
Well, that’s true. My family and my in-laws are very supportive. But alerts were buzzing left and right, and their disapproval was just one of the many things stressing me out. There were so many decisions to make and so many people to please. And to make things worse, my face had broken out, and I was still searching for the perfect makeover. Don’t get me wrong, I love them, but the idea of deciding for us keeps me on my toes.
Shopping is another trouble in the basket.
I thought I would walk into a town, talk to my designer, and come up with a sweet design, but my guess was a demand that wasn’t meant. My favourite colours have always been black and white. I had dreamt of wearing a black gown with a touch of white and gold accessories, but my sister-in-law sneered, looking at me with a mix of judgement and disgust. “Are you inviting the dead?” I was speechless. Dead? How?
I could feel my blood boil at her words.
Why do people attach so much unnecessary meaning to colours? “What’s wrong with black?” I retorted, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s a classic colour, and I think it looks great on me.” She argued further, “You are from Ekiti, not from Preston.”
My fiancé, sensing my frustration, stepped in. “Leave her alone; she looks beautiful in black,” he said, wrapping his arms around me. “And besides, it’s our wedding, not yours.” She gave me a wicked laugh and walked away. “Bride of the Century,” my fiancé, held my hand. He knew I was pissed off. But I just rolled my eyes. “What’s wrong with her? Having to remind me I’m from Ekiti all the time.” Must she do that? Not like I have amnesia. “Anyway, Preston, what a lovely environment.” I can’t wait to move back. I was happy that my fiancé supported me at least, which kept me going.
While browsing through different Aso-Oke designs at Iya Alaso Oke’s place with my mother, I thought that Aso-Oke used to itch. But nobody has corrected that assumption. “I would have loved a polka-dot mermaid gown for the wedding,” I said silently. “Iru kini yen.” I’m not an English person, oo Remi, Kilode gan. Aso-oke would be better, and don’t think of black as a colour.” That was the constant reminder ringing in my head as I continued to check around. Suddenly, my phone rang. It was my fiancé, and he sounded serious. “My parents want you to come to our family reunion,” he said calmly.
My heart sank at the thought of cooking.
I had never been good at it, and the idea of cooking for so many people I barely knew was terrifying. “I can’t do it,” I protested. “I don’t know how to cook.” He laughed. Who says you will cook? He must have forgotten what he told me about the reunion and how all his sisters used to cook. The reunion is to catch up with each other, and it’s a big deal. Some of his sisters would fly down just for it. So I pictured the whole thing as I tried to talk him over it. “You’re coming,” he said. “It’s important to them, and it’s important to me.”
My phone slipped off my hand, and I felt a knot in my stomach. How was I going to survive a cooking competition with typical Ekiti people? I had heard that their best food was pounded yam and okra.
My mother noticed that something was wrong. “Is it the Aso Oke?” she asked, looking at me with concern. “Or is it something else?” I had to bottle it up. My mother is a strict professor who always creates time to cook for her in-laws, so there is no excuse. I exclaimed again. She shouted my name: “Oluwaremilekun, what is it? Is it the Aso oke or “Kilo shey e iwo omo yin? Did you and your husband fight?” I whispered, If it’s that, it won’t be difficult now.” I quickly snapped out of it. “No, it’s not the Aso Oke,” I said, my voice shaking. But before I could say anything, she dragged me from the corner and showed me a new colour. “You would love this,” she said, with a wide smile like a river.
My mind was fixed.
How could I sit with eight sisters in the kitchen? What will I be doing? Give them salt or tell them to add coriander or whatever.”. Don’t even roll your eyes at me. The family is a typical Ekiti family, just like mine, but I know how to manage my family, but my in-laws... They don’t subscribe to buying food whenever they hold that reunion. I thought they would shift the reunion since they are planning a wedding for their only son.
But seriously, what should I do?”
