Sitting on a stack of plastic chairs, smoldering, royally vexed about a wedding ceremony that has gone on for too long – I have decided to write about my ideal wedding. The ideal wedding I sometimes dream about; the ideal wedding I know I will never have.
My ideal wedding has a hundred guests, give or take one or two people. There are no self-appointed Aunts who have never set eyes on me, yet claim to have funded my primary education; there are no self-appointed Uncles who cannot be bothered to remember my name between sightings, yet have come to regale guests with stories of my impish behavior as a child.
The invitation cards have been carefully designed, hand-drawn even. My fifty all bear the name of the intended guests, lovingly written in my own hand. “Strictly by Invitation”, they proclaim in the lower right corner; “cash gifts” only, they proclaim in the lower left. After all, I will have all the pans and pots I require before my wedding, and have no intention to set up shop selling coolers and dinnerware afterwards.
However, if you insist, and feel compelled to buy me a gift – whichever model of the Samsung Smart TV is selling at the time will not be a bad idea. Do not worry that I may receive more than one. I know exactly what to do with them all.
The wedding-venue is somewhere exotic. Thanks Musa, but I’ll pass on your invitation to use the Orchid hotel grounds. A private beach, a luxury yacht, or a beautiful garden are all welcome options; no ancient pews and chugging fans at my ideal wedding. No, Musa, I did not say “Balmoral”; I said I would pass.
The food is similarly exotic, and it is plentiful. It is not the pretentious buffet with harried chefs glaring at you from beneath stained white caps. The guests waiting to serve themselves of the delicious victuals are all smiling and courteous. A few single ladies will trace marriages to this day, I tell you.
The service is delightful, but concise. There are no ancient choristers singing tired songs, imploring me to surround my table with children – never mind that two children can hardly encircle a table these days. There are no long and laborious Bible Readings; no worn sermons including the famed phrase: “when I was in America…”
My bride is elegant. Her makeup is sparing, enough to accentuate the bold features of her face but not so much that she takes on the appearance of a Chinese doll. Her dress is awesome but modest, sending male and female guests alike reeling with envy. My heart swells with pride as she walks down the makeshift aisle; a tear or two forms in the corners of my eyes.
Sadly, you see, apart from the very last point about my bride – my ideal wedding will live forever in the theatre of dreams.
“Why” is not far-fetched.
I am a Yoruba child.
Mogbekeloluwa ‘Koye’ Ladele lives in Lagos, Nigeria. He’s a reader, a writer, a purchasing professional and a die hard fan of Real Madrid.
He blogs at www.koyegbeke.com