Read earlier parts here
“I am disgusted with my life. Let me complain freely. My bitter soul must complain.
The wedding is upon us. And I don’t even know how I feel. On the one hand, I am excited. On the other, scratch that. On both hands, I am happy for Abigail. Dotun is a good guy. He is not the best of persons, really. But the truth is, nobody is a saint. And that’s what life is all about choosing your battles. You don’t have to get married to x, you don’t even have to get married at all, you don’t have to have children, but being single till you die is one battle on its own. And loneliness kills, honestly. So you choose – loneliness and no disturbance on the one hand, or the turmoil of raising children and the joy that comes with it on the other. And sometimes, when you can’t really choose because life is not even giving you options anyway, you still fight because, who are you kidding?
So nobody’s life is really perfect. The way you get ahead is to make informed decisions. What battle would I rather fight? And then you throw yourself into it because once you have chosen, you must win…
I sit gingerly on the edge of Abigail’s bed as I watch everybody. Somehow this was supposed to be a bridal shower with some travel/tourist theme as the dress code – is this even a thing? – and gifts along travelling and tourist lines. I painted my toe nails dark purple, slipped my feet into my flip-flops, threw on a sleeveless t shirt on top of my sport bra, and a pair of high waisted shorts. I hung my wide brimmed hat on my neck and my shades on my neck line. It is more of a summer outfit but what do tourists wear again? And I think they (the other friends of the bride) missed the memo because I am looking like someone that walked in on the party uninvited. Everybody else looks like a million dollars. It is in the weaves, and wristwatches, and satchels and tote bags. Everything has a label. I end up smiling too brightly in the pictures taken because I hate to see myself looking gloomy on one of Abigail’s big days. She deserves better. I lose track of the conversation too because I can’t relate. Enkay is a bit subdued, and Fifunmi is not here.
I listen to talks of trips to Paris and London and Dubai, the newest places to fix your closure and make it look more believable, spa treatments, boyfriends, socialites in lagos, the latest wedding parties, until I can take it no more. At least, my gift to Abigail is wrapped. I am hoping that she won’t have to open it first. But I am mistaken. I gave her a very nice sleeveless dress which cost a tidy sum. I had asked my brother to get me ‘in the abroad’. The other gifts are jaw dropping – hotel reservations , return tickets, etc. I shrug my shoulders. When did I become like this? Automatically condemning my life because of something that I don’t have. What happens when what I don’t have is the real measure of success? At least that’s what it feels like. I drag myself to the bathroom to give myself some pep talk in the mirror because I could really use it. Whatever my feelings are, they are dark and keep dragging me under. And I hate being like this. In the bathroom I hear snippets of a one sided conversation. I figure the person is on the phone. I go to the front of the mirror anyway. Since I have an audience I may as well just splash some cold water on my face. My demons taunt me to say the dreaded words. I won’t. I will not. I. will. Not. I refuse to. Just then I breathe in some of the water, and my nostrils burn as I fight for air. I say them anyway.
I hate my life.