Author: Ngo Baby

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.

My darlings, grab your chilled Maltina and sit down. Make sure you are comfortable because the story I have for you today? Omo, if I don’t tell it, my chest might actually explode.

You know your girl, Ngo Baby. I am the life of the party. If there is a white marquee tent anywhere in Lagos, my name is usually on the guest list, or at least, I know the person holding the list. But last Saturday? Last Saturday was a spiritual exercise in patience.

The wedding was for Kemi and Dayo. High society. The kind of wedding where the souvenir is a customized power bank and the small chops have “intercontinental” options. But the real drama wasn’t at the altar. No, the drama started three months ago when the aso-ebi colors were announced.

The Great Fabric War

Tolu and Simi, my two “close” friends who haven’t spoken since 2023, were both on the bridal train. Well, sort of. Tolu was representing the groom’s side in “Champagne Gold and Burnt Orange,” and Simi was on the bride’s side in “Electric Blue and Silver.” Both of them called me.

“Ngozi, you have to buy my fabric,” Tolu told me, her voice dripping with that fake Lagos sweetness. “You know Simi is a snake. She stole my boyfriend three years ago, even if they broke up after two weeks, the principle remains! If you wear her blue, you are an enemy of progress.”

Ten minutes later, Simi calls. “Ngo Baby! My sister, the Silver lace is N150,000 but for you, I’ll give it for N145,000. Don’t go and wear that orange rag Tolu is selling. It looks like rust.”

Me, I am a woman of peace. And more importantly, I am a woman who does not like to waste N150,000 on lace that will just end up as a cushion cover in two years. I told them both the same thing: “My darlings, my pastor said I should fast from buying new clothes this month for my ‘marital breakthrough.’ I will come as a neutral guest.”

Translation: I’m coming to watch the match, not play for either team.

The Gele of Affliction

I arrived at the Landmark Centre looking like a bag of money. Since I wasn’t wearing the official uniform, I had to stand out. I wore a shimmering emerald green silk gown that hugged my curves in all the right places.

However, I made one mistake. I borrowed a couture-pleated gele from my cousin, Bimpe. Bimpe has a small head. Me? I have a “head of state.” By 2:00 PM, that gele was squeezing my brain so hard I started remembering my nursery school rhymes. My vision was vibrating, but shuo, look at the finishing! I looked expensive. If I was going to have a migraine, I would have it looking like a billionaire’s first wife.

I took my seat at the “Neutral Table,” a collection of distant cousins, work colleagues, and people like me who were too smart to pick a side in the Cold War.

The First Shots Fired

The reception was in full swing. The DJ was playing old-school Highlife, and the smell of Jollof rice was enough to make a person forget their sins.

I was busy adjusting my lashes in my compact mirror, strictly for surveillance purposes, mind you, when I heard it. Tolu’s younger sister, a girl who hasn’t even finished her NYSC but already has the mouth of a market woman, walked past Simi’s table.

“Imagine,” she said loudly to her friend. “Some people are wearing ‘Electric Blue’ but they look like they were struck by actual lightning. The lace is cheap, jor.”

Simi, who was busy taking a selfie, froze. She didn’t turn around. She just said, “At least my lace is new. Some people are wearing Burnt Orange because it matches the color of the second-hand car their boyfriend just bought them. Shameful.“

I didn’t even blink. I just adjusted my emerald green shoulder. Round one to Simi, I whispered to my glass of wine.

The Spraying Referee

The real chaos started during the “Couple’s Dance.” In a Lagos wedding, the dance floor is a battlefield. Tolu and her squad were on the left. Simi and her crew were on the right.

Then, Kemi’s mother, a lovely woman who doesn’t know she’s surrounded by vultures, started dancing toward the middle. Tolu went out to spray her. Simi went out to spray her. They stood shoulder to shoulder, feet away from each other, throwing N1000 notes like they were launching missiles.

They refused to acknowledge each other. It was getting awkward. The air was thick with “I-pass-my-neighbor” energy. The MC was trying to hype the crowd, but everyone was watching the two of them. Tolu accidentally, or maybe not, stepped on Simi’s silver shoe with her orange heel.

Simi hissed so loud it drowned out the drum. “Move away, you this husband-snatcher!”

“Who are you calling a husband-snatcher? The man didn’t even want you! He told me your stew tastes like salt water!”

I saw the hand go up. I saw the drama loading. My gele was killing me, but duty called. I jumped up, grabbed a handful of “Peace Offering Money” (the N500 notes I keep for emergencies), and danced my way right between them.

“Eh! My sisters! Celebrate! It is a wedding, not wrestling!” I started spraying them both simultaneously. Left hand for Tolu, right hand for Simi. “Smile for the camera! Don’t let the village people win! Kemi is looking at you! Look at your makeup, it’s melting! Peace and love!”

I leaned in and whispered, “If you two fight here, I will tell everyone about that guy from the oil company who dumped both of you in the same week. Don’t test Ngo Baby.”

They both stiffened. They smiled, the kind of smile that doesn’t reach the eyes, the kind that says I will kill you later, and moved to opposite sides of the hall.

The Bathroom Summit

By the time the cake was being cut, I had gathered all the vital information. I knew that the Groom’s best man was actually dating the Bride’s ex-roommate. I knew that Tolu’s “Burnt Orange” fabric was actually N20,000 cheaper than she told everyone. 

And I knew that Simi’s mother had sent a prayer point to their family WhatsApp group specifically targeting “the jezebel in blue lace.”

I went to the restroom to try and loosen my gele before my brain actually turned into pap. Just as I was about to undo the pin, the door slammed.

Tolu and Simi. Face to face. The tension was so high you could use it to charge a phone.

“You think you’re smart, eh Ngozi?” Tolu snapped. “Trying to play both sides.”

“Listen to me, both of you,” I said, locking the restroom door. My headache was giving me a newfound authority. “Look at yourselves. Two beautiful women, wearing expensive lace, fighting over a man who moved to Canada two years ago and is currently posting pictures of his new white wife and their golden retriever.”

“He has a dog?” Simi asked, her anger momentarily replaced by curiosity.

“A big one,” I lied. (He doesn’t, but drama requires embellishment). “Is he paying your rent? No. Is he here to see your gele? No. You are ruining Kemi’s day because of a man who can’t even find Nigeria on a map anymore. Is it worth it? Or do you want to go back out there and be the topic of tomorrow’s gossip?”

They looked at each other. The silence stretched.

“Her lace is actually quite nice,” Tolu muttered, looking at Simi’s silver sleeves.

“And the orange isn’t as ‘rusty’ as I thought,” Simi sighed.

They didn’t hug. This isn’t a Nollywood movie where everyone becomes best friends and starts a business together. But they agreed to a “Ceasefire Agreement.” They decided to spend the rest of the night ignoring each other with dignity instead of malice.

The Aftermath

I left the wedding at 9:00 PM. I had two doggy bags, one containing extra fruitcake and the other filled with choice pieces of fried meat I “confiscated” from a distracted waiter.

As I sat in my car, I finally ripped that emerald gele off my head. Sweet Jesus, the relief. I could feel my blood flowing back to my frontal lobe.

I immediately dialed my friend Funke.

“Funke! Omo, you missed! You won’t believe what happened at Kemi’s wedding. Yes, Tolu and Simi almost exchanged blows! If not for me, the police would have been involved. I had to go into ‘UN Peacekeeper’ mode. And wait… wait till I tell you what I found out about the Groom’s brother…”

I drove through the Lagos traffic, munching on a piece of gizzard, feeling very satisfied. People ask me why I don’t have a man of my own. Honestly? With all this drama I get to watch for free every weekend, who needs a husband? I am the audience, the critic, and the director all in one.

And that, my darling, is why Ngo Baby never joins aso-ebi. I’m not a team player, I’m the whole commentator.

What happens when bridal shower fun turns into unexpected relationship advice? This Nigerian wedding story reveals why every bride should look deeper before saying “I do.”

Introduction

Planning a Nigerian wedding is exciting. Bridal showers, aso-ebi, and unforgettable moments all come together to create beautiful memories. But sometimes, beneath the laughter and celebration, deeper truths can surface.

In this story, what started as a joyful bridal shower in Lekki quickly turned into something nobody expected.

If you have ever wondered whether it is important to check everything before marriage, this episode might just answer you.

The Bridal Shower in Lekki: All Fun and Vibes

My people, they said I leaked secret. I said I leaked vision.

Because tell me, if the spirit is moving, will you now put duct tape on my mouth? God forbid bad thing.

Anyway, let me not rush the gist.

That Saturday, I found myself in Lekki Phase 1. It was not even a direct invitation, just Lagos connection. The bride’s auntie, Mummy Ifunanya, who is my church friend, said:

“Ngozi, come and add life to my niece’s bridal shower.”

Add life?

See responsibility.

The venue looked like a mini resort. Pink and gold decorations were everywhere. The cake stood proudly like it had a diplomatic passport. Even the small chops were arranged like they were going for fashion week.

And me?

I did not come to play.

Fitted dry-lace gown.
Gele standing like Lekki-Ikoyi bridge.
Heels announcing my presence like breaking news.

As I entered, whispers started:

• “That must be Aunty Ngozi”
• “I heard she’s funny”
• “I heard she’s outspoken”

Outspoken? Just say anointed and move on.

When Advice Turned Into Wahala

Everything was going smoothly. Games, laughter, and pictures filled the air.

Then somebody shouted:

“Aunty Ngozi, come and give us advice!”

Chai.

You see how problem starts?

I tried to avoid it a little, but let’s be honest, Ngo Baby was ready.

They handed me the microphone.

I stood up.

Suddenly, everywhere became quiet. Even the AC seemed to be listening.

“My people, marriage is a beautiful thing.”

They nodded.

“But it is also a serious thing.”

More nodding.

I continued:

“Before you say ‘I do,’ make sure you know everything you are saying ‘I do’ to.”

Now the room was completely silent.

Then something shifted. Not an ordinary feeling. The kind that carries a message.

I leaned closer to the microphone.

“My sister, before you tie that gele, go and check well.”

People adjusted in their seats.

“Check family. Investigate history. Check what is hidden.”

Tension had entered the room.

Still, I continued.

“Because what is hidden in Lagos will find light in Benin.”

The Moment Everything Changed

Silence.

Deep silence.

Even the DJ stopped moving.

Then I added:

“Children do not hide forever.”

My people, that was when everything scattered.

• The best friend screamed “Jesus!” and fainted
• One auntie dropped her drink
• The groom’s sister stood up sharply

“What does that mean?”

Even me, I blinked.

Because at that moment, I realized that Ngo Baby had entered deep waters.

The bride, Chioma, looked confused:

“Aunty, what are you saying?”

I adjusted my gele.

“It is spiritual advice.”

Wrong answer.

Whispers filled the room:

• “Does he have a child?”
• “Who is in Benin?”
• “What are we not being told?”

The bride stood up again.

“Please explain yourself.”

I took a breath.

“If there is nothing, praise God. But if there is something, it is better to find out now than later.”

Gasps followed immediately.

The groom’s sister picked her bag and walked out.

The best friend was still on the floor, pretending to faint but watching everything.

And me?

I stood there holding the microphone like an unexpected investigator.

After the Bridal Shower: Truth Started Coming Out

Later, Mummy Ifunanya pulled me aside.

“Ngozi, what did you do?”

I replied:

“Mummy, it was Holy Ghost.”

She looked at me carefully.

“Holy Ghost or busybody ghost?”

I answered:

“I do not gossip. I receive.”

But here is the interesting part.

Two days later, small pieces of information started coming out.

• One cousin mentioned something
• One friend talked about a girl in Benin

You see truth? It does not stay buried.

Lessons Every Bride Should Learn Before Marriage

This may sound like a story, but the message is real.

Before saying “I do,” keep these in mind:

• Always verify your partner’s past
• Do not ignore uncomfortable signs
• Family and background matter
• Ask questions, even the difficult ones
• It is better to delay than regret

FAQs About Marriage and Red Flags in Nigeria

What should you check before getting married?

You should check your partner’s background, past relationships, family history, and any hidden responsibilities.

Are bridal showers common in Nigeria?

Yes, bridal showers are a popular pre-wedding celebration, especially in cities like Lagos.

How do you identify red flags before marriage?

Pay attention to secrecy, inconsistencies, and anything that feels off. Ask questions early.

Final Thoughts

Some people said I scattered the bridal shower.

I say I redirected destiny.

Because deep down, every bride deserves the truth.

Have you ever witnessed wedding drama like this?

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