Chai! My people, come closer. Pull up a plastic chair, grab a cold drink, and let me tell you why I am currently hiding from my sister, Mama Chichi.
If you see her, please tell her I have gone to a mountain for seven days of fasting and prayer. Because the way that woman is looking for me with a rolling pin in her hand? Omo, it is not for baking cake, I can assure you.
But before we get to the drama, you know who this is. It’s your one and only Ngo Baby! The original Aunty Ngozi, the life of the party, the woman whose gele is always the tallest in the room. Even though my own husband is still in the warehouse of heaven waiting for delivery, I am the Minister of Relationship Affairs. I have the “eye.” I can look at a man’s shoe and tell you if he will be a faithful husband or a professional heartbreaker. Or so I thought.
The Encounter at the Owambe
It all started two weeks ago at Chief Okeke’s daughter’s wedding. The aso ebi was a blinding “Electric Onion” purple lace that could make your eyes water if you looked at it too long. But you know me, I rocked it. I tied my gele so sharp it was practically a lethal weapon.
The party was loud! The DJ was playing “Unavailable” by Davido on a loop, and the bass was vibrating in my very chest. People were spraying money like it was being printed in the kitchen. I was busy tactical-maneuvering towards the Jollof rice station, because you can’t judge a marriage if the rice is soggy; when I saw him.
He was tall, dark, wearing a white agbada that was so crisp it looked like it could cut paper. He was spraying crisp five-hundred-naira notes on the couple with the grace of a man who has never known a “debit alert” in his life.
“Chai,” I whispered to myself, “God when?”
I did my research (which means I asked the woman sharing the souvenirs). His name was Tunde. An engineer! A “big boy” from Lagos! Immediately, my brain started working. My younger cousin, Chinwe, is twenty-five, single, and her mother; my sister is already eyeing every young man in the village.
The Sales Pitch
The next day, I zoomed to my sister’s house. I found Chinwe in the parlor, looking at TikTok.
“Chinwe! My daughter!” I shouted, dropping my handbag. “The Lord has visited you! I have found him! Your ‘God-sent’ husband has landed!”
Chinwe looked up, skeptical. “Aunty Ngozi, please. The last person you ‘found’ for me asked if he could borrow my charger and never gave it back.”
“Mtchew! That one was a mistake of the head, not the heart,” I dismissed her with a wave of my hand. “But this Tunde? Oga of all bachelors! He has an agbada that smells like imported perfume and a smile that can cure malaria. An engineer! He builds bridges, Chinwe! He will build a bridge to your heart!”
I spent two hours washing her head. I told her weddings are the best place to test chemistry. “If he can survive a Nigerian wedding reception without losing his temper, he is a saint,” I told her. I convinced her to meet him at the next wedding on my calendar: The Shodipo-Adams merger.
The Date from Hell
Saturday came. The theme was “Champagne Gold and Teal.” Chinwe looked like a literal angel. Tunde arrived, looking like a billionaire’s first son. I was feeling like the Greatest Matchmaker in West Africa. I sat them together at Table 12, right near the cooling van so they could get the best drinks.
“Ngo Baby, you have done it again,” I patted myself on the back, heading to the dance floor to show the young girls how to move.
But around 4:00 PM, while the MC was cracking jokes about mothers-in-law, I noticed Chinwe’s seat was empty. Then I saw her. She was standing by the back entrance where the caterers were dishing out the moin-moin. Her face was red. Her gele was tilted.
My phone started vibrating in my bag. It was Chinwe.
“Aunty!” she wailed into the phone, even though I was only twenty feet away. “Come and see your ‘God-sent’ engineer! Come and see the bridge-builder!”
I rushed over. My heart was thumping. “What happened? Did he spill palm wine on your dress?”
“No, Aunty! Look!”
Behind a stack of crates of Coca-Cola, there was Tunde. He wasn’t talking about engineering. He was leaning against the wall, holding the hand of Sisiyemi, the head caterer.
“Sisiyemi,” Tunde was cooing, “your Jollof is the only thing hotter than your smile. Forget these city girls, let me follow you to the kitchen. Give me your number, let me call you when I’m hungry for love.”
Sisiyemi was giggling like a schoolgirl, clutching a serving spoon to her chest. Tunde didn’t even see us. He was too busy trying to collect a “takeaway” pack and a phone number at the same time. See finish!
The Aftermath
Chinwe burst into tears and ran out to find a Uber. I stood there, mouth open. My “perfect bachelor” was a “food-digging” womanizer!
Ten minutes later, my phone rang. It was my sister, Mama Chichi, screaming. “Ngozi! What kind of ‘caterer-chaser’ did you give my daughter? She is home crying! Her eyes are swollen like puff puff!”
I took a deep breath. Now, a lesser woman would have apologized. A lesser woman would have said, “Ngozi, you failed.” But I am Ngo Baby. I am an African Aunty. We do not fail; we only encounter “spiritual interference.”
“Sister, keep quiet!” I shouted back. “Don’t you see what is happening? This is not Tunde’s fault. This is a generational curse!”
“A what?”
“Yes!” I continued, my voice gaining confidence. “I have just done a quick spiritual check. It turns out Tunde’s great-grandfather once offended a caterer in 1952. He refused to pay for the extra meat in his okra soup. Since then, every man in their family is destined to lose their head whenever they smell fried fish and curry. It is a kitchen-based affliction! We should be thanking God Chinwe found out now before she married into a family of soup-obsessed men!”
“Ngozi, you are mad,” my sister said, and hung up.
The Vow
Honestly, the “see finish” I suffered that day was too much. To think I almost gave that man the last piece of fried meat from my own plate!
As I sat there, watching Sisiyemi give Tunde an extra-large portion of dodo, I made a solemn vow. I, Aunty Ngozi, am officially retiring from the matchmaking business. No more. I will focus on my own life. Find my own King. I am done with other people’s drama.
…at least until next Saturday. Because I heard that the Mother of the Bride for the Cole wedding is bringing a “special guest” from the UK for her daughter, and I suspect the girl is already secretly dating the family driver.
Stay tuned for the gist, my sisters! Love and Jollof,
— Ngo Baby.
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