A Four-Part Comedy

EPISODE ONE: PLEASE SEE THE WOMAN IN BURGUNDY

If there is one thing I have learnt about Nigerian weddings, it is this: never underestimate the power of a well-dressed woman with a serious face.

People will assume you are somebody important.

Wear a matching outfit, carry a handbag, and walk with purpose? Congratulations. You have just been promoted without an interview.

Unfortunately, I learnt this lesson the hard way.

My plan that Saturday was simple: attend a traditional wedding in Ibadan, eat enough food to justify my transport fare, dance small, and return to Lagos before my body began asking unnecessary questions.

I was not there to work. I was not there to volunteer. I certainly was not there to manage anybody’s family.

I was there for love, jollof rice, and small chops.

In that order.

The bride, Tola, and I knew each other through a mutual friend. We weren’t particularly close, but we were cool enough for her to invite me to her wedding. I decided to attend, and my cousin Femi came along with me. He claimed he was there to keep me company, but I suspected the promise of free food had played a significant role in his decision.

Neither of us knew the bride’s family personally, so to Aunty Sade, the bride’s aunt, we were simply guests among the many people attending the wedding.

I arrived at the venue looking good in my burgundy dress, comfortable heels, and a handbag containing all the essentials a responsible Nigerian woman might need: my phone, lip gloss, handkerchief, and the ability to mind my business.

I had barely stepped inside when a woman rushed towards me.

“Madam! Thank God you’re here!”

Eeeehhh!!! I looked behind me.

Perhaps another madam was coming.

Nobody was.

She grabbed my arm. “We’ve been looking for you! The caterers are asking questions, the decorator is doing anyhow, and the bride’s aunty is already shouting.”

I blinked.

“Sorry, are you talking to me?”

She looked at me as though I had personally offended her ancestors.

“Yes, you! The coordinator!”

I laughed.

She did not.

“Madam, I’m a guest.”

She looked me up and down.

“But you’re wearing burgundy.”

I glanced at my dress, then back at her.

“Madam, if burgundy is a qualification, half this wedding can run a government ministry.”

She was not amused. Instead, she shoved a phone into my hand and disappeared into the crowd.

Just like that.

No introduction. No contract. No salary discussion.

I had been employed against my will.

Before I could process what had happened, another woman approached.

“Madam Coordinator, where should we keep the drinks?”

“I’m not the coordinator.”

“Okay, ma. But where should we keep the drinks?”

I stared at her.

“Ask whoever brought them.”

“They said we should ask you.”

Of course they did.

Apparently, my clarification had entered one ear, greeted the couple, and gone home.

I finally escaped and found a seat. My stomach had begun reminding me that I left Lagos without eating properly. It was becoming difficult to distinguish hunger from anger.

I was just about to settle down when my cousin Femi appeared.

Femi was the sort of person who could arrive at the scene of a problem five minutes before it ended and still give a detailed account of how he solved it.

“Kemi! There you are!”

“Femi, please. I have not come to this wedding to suffer.”

He noticed the phone in my hand.

“Ah! You’ve started work?”

“What work?”

When I explained what had happened, he laughed so hard that I briefly considered making him the first casualty of the event.

“Just tell them you’re not the coordinator!”

“I HAVE BEEN TELLING THEM!”

“Okay, okay. Calm down.”

Nigerian men have a remarkable talent for recommending calm to women while contributing absolutely nothing to the situation.

I dropped the phone on the table in front of me and sat down.

Finally, peace.

Then the MC, a man who appeared to have swallowed a microphone at birth, announced:

“Ladies and gentlemen, can we please appreciate our beautiful event coordinator!”

I froze.

“She has been working tirelessly behind the scenes to make this day a success!”

Egbami!!

Behind which scenes, please? I had been looking for the food station.

He spotted me.

“Madam in burgundy! Please join us!”

The crowd turned.

Someone clapped.

Another person shouted, “Yes, ma!”

I looked towards the exit. Unfortunately, people were blocking the way, and a tray of small chops stood dangerously close to me.

I had two choices: escape or eat.

I chose leadership.

I walked towards the stage, hoping that if I explained the misunderstanding publicly, I could return to my seat and begin my actual assignment: eating.

MC Busybody shoved the microphone into my hand like he was handing over the Nigerian 2027 budget.

“Ladies and gentlemen, our coordinator!”

The guests applauded.

I stared at the microphone, then at the crowd.

“Good afternoon, everyone.”

“Good afternoon!” they chorused.

“Please, I think there has been a small misunderstanding….”

The microphone squealed.

Everyone covered their ears.

MC Busybody adjusted it and handed it back.

“Speak up, ma!”

I leaned towards him. “Can I speak to you privately?”

He beamed into his own microphone.

“Our coordinator is very hands-on!”

The crowd cheered.

I smiled the smile of a woman who had just discovered that some problems were too expensive to solve.

Then Aunty Sade, the bride’s aunt, marched towards the stage.

“Madam Coordinator, when exactly are we starting the food?”

The crowd went quiet.

I looked at Aunty Sade.

Aunty Sade looked at me.

I looked at the microphone.

Somewhere in the distance, my small chops were calling my name.

I cleared my throat.

“Food will be served shortly.”

The crowd applauded.

Aunty Sade nodded approvingly.

“Good. At least somebody here knows what she’s doing.”

And just like that, my career in event management began.

I had no training, no contract, and no idea where the caterers were.

But I had a microphone.

In Nigeria, that is sometimes all the qualification you need.

TO BE CONTINUED…