A Four-Part Comedy

EPISODE THREE: THE MIC IS NOT YOUR FRIEND

By the time MC Busybody called me onto the stage for the second time, I knew my life had taken a turn I was not prepared for.

I had come to a wedding to eat, take pictures, and mind my business. Somehow, I had become a public figure.

“Kemi, our woman in burgundy!” MC Busybody announced.

The crowd cheered.

I smiled the smile of someone who had accepted her fate but was still hoping for divine intervention.

“Thank you, thank you,” I said into the microphone. “Please, I want to clarify that I am not the event coordinator. I am a guest. I came here to eat jollof rice like every other responsible Nigerian.”

The crowd burst into laughter.

MC Busybody laughed too.

“Ah! But you have been helping us all day!”

“Helping is not the same as employment, sir!”

Another round of laughter.

At this point, I was beginning to enjoy myself. If I was going to suffer, at least I would suffer with an audience.

MC Busybody continued:

“Please, entertain us small.”

Entertain you?

Was I now a comedian?

I looked at the guests and decided that if I was going to be embarrassed, I might as well make it worth my while.

“First of all, if you are wearing asoebi today, I hope you have collected your food and souvenirs, because it’s not easy to tie gele and do makeup. If you go home hungry, ask for a refund on the asoebi.”

The guests screamed with laughter.

“Secondly, if you are single, please enjoy yourself. If anybody asks you when you are getting married, tell them to contribute to your wedding budget first.”

Someone shouted, “Kemi, are you married?”

I turned towards the voice.

“Cash or transfer? My account number is 5290367361, Q-point bank?”

The laughter was so loud that even MC Busybody had to step away from the microphone.

For one glorious moment, I felt like a star.

Then the bride’s mother approached the stage with a worried expression.

“Kemi, please, we need your help.”

My smile disappeared.

“Mummy, what happened?”

“The photographer’s phone has gone off, and he needs to charge it. We have been looking for a power bank.”

I stared at her.

“Ma, I am not the coordinator.”

“I know, my daughter. But please, help us.”

Of course.

I was no longer even pretending to be surprised.

I stepped down from the stage and asked a few guests if anyone had a power bank. Thankfully, one young man produced one from his pocket.

Problem solved.

I returned to my seat, feeling proud of myself for finally completing a task that did not involve a microphone.

Unfortunately, Aunty Sade had been watching.

“You see?” she said, pointing at me. “This is why I keep asking Kemi for help. At least somebody is thinking quickly.”

I had come to eat jollof rice. I was now apparently running a two-person consultancy.

At this point, I decided that the best way to survive the wedding was to avoid eye contact with everybody. Maybe, just maybe, if I stayed quiet enough, they would remember I was a guest and leave me alone.

I returned to my seat, picked up a samosa, and took my first bite.

Finally.

Peace.

Quiet.

A moment to myself.

Then I heard Aunty Sade calling my name.

“Kemi!”

I closed my eyes.

God, if You love me, please let this woman be calling somebody else.

“Kemi, please, have you seen the groom’s uncle?”

I opened my eyes slowly.

“Which uncle, ma?”

“The tall one. He was sitting near the drinks stand.”

I looked around.

“Ma, there are several tall men at this wedding.”

“The one wearing blue.”

I sighed, placed my samosa back on the plate, and went in search of the missing uncle.

I eventually found him sleeping peacefully on a plastic chair in a quiet corner.

“Good afternoon, sir.”

He opened one eye.

“Hmm?”

“Sir, they are looking for you.”

“Who?”

“The family, sir.”

He sat up slowly, looking deeply offended.

“What have I done now? I have eaten. I have greeted everybody. What else do they want me to do?”

I had no answer.

He stood up, adjusted his clothes, and followed me back towards the main event area.

Then he looked at me.

“Are you the coordinator?”

I smiled weakly.

“Apparently, sir.”

He nodded sympathetically.

“May God strengthen you.”

“Amen, sir. And may God also send me home.”

He laughed so hard that I briefly wondered whether I had finally found someone who understood my suffering.

By the time I returned to my seat, my samosa was gone.

Gone.

I looked around suspiciously.

Femi was chewing.

I stared at him.

He swallowed.

“What?”

“Did you eat my samosa?”

He looked at me as if I had accused him of a serious crime.

“You left it there.”

“I left it there for myself, Femi!”

He shrugged.

“You’ve been busy. I was helping you.”

I looked at the ceiling.

Lord, give me strength. Because if You don’t, this guy will become a missing person before the reception ends.

And I would be the prime suspect.

TO BE CONTINUED…