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.
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