I always imagined my wedding night would be soaked in scented candles, silk sheets, Marvin Gaye playing softly in the background and my husband gently whispering sweet nothings into my ear like, “You are the sugar in my garri.” But instead, here I was… plotting wickedness.
Why? Because this man, this man that I married with my whole chest and the last of my dignity had the audacity to be dancing too closely to a woman who looked suspiciously like one of his “former prayer partners. Yes I mean his ex!!
You know the type. The ones who never quite leave. The ones that still comment “Hmm, God did it eventually” under his pre-wedding photos on Instagram.
As we danced during the final stretch of our reception, I leaned in, all smiles for the camera. But behind the scenes? My left eye was tracking that girl in yellow lace with the waist that didn’t quit.
“Isn’t that” I started to whisper to myself.
My village people heard me.
They rang the bell in my head.
Ding-ding-ding: Petty Alert Activated.
Why not give this man my sweet, unsuspecting, love-struck husband a taste of drama on our first night?
Just a sprinkle. A small starter pack of wahala. Let him know marriage isn’t beans.
So, the moment the “small chops” plates cleared, I switched gears.
I frowned.
Like, I'm turning a stubborn eba
No more hand holding. No more smiling. No more looking into his eyes like I was hypnotized. Nope. I folded my arms, refused to look at him, and started eating like I was chewing raw revenge.
He noticed, of course.
“Baby, are you okay?” he asked gently.
I picked rice like I was mining for gold and ignored him.
“Babe… what’s wrong?”
I gave him the bombastic side-eye. Very subtle. Very venomous.
He leaned in, confused. “You this woman, what is it now?”
Aha! The Holy Ghost fire in me leapt up.
“Don’t talk to me,” I said, sharp like pepper.
He laughed. “Wait don’t talk to me ke? The wife that I married with my own money?”
I dropped my spoon. “Wife that you are now calling ‘you this woman?’ Wow! On our wedding night? So this is how you want to be talking to me in marriage?”
His face was a perfect painting of confusion and irritation. Delicious.
“Wait first,” he said. “Is this about that girl that wore the yellow lace?”
Caught red-handed, I hissed like an overboiled kettle. “Ohhh, so you even noticed her! My God is alive!”
“Sweetheart, that’s my cousin, for crying out loud.”
“Cousin from where? Is she your blood cousin or Instagram cousin? Or spiritual cousin that used to lay hands on your head?”
He blinked twice. He was sweating now. The man was actually distressed. And me? I was enjoying it like ice cream.
We got into the car that would take us to the hotel. I made sure to sit by the window, pressing my shoulder hard into the door like he had body odor. He tried to hold my hand.
“Don’t touch me,” I snapped. “You should have danced with your cousin all the way to the hotel.”
He sighed. “If this is what married life will be like, I need to ask for refund from your father.”
I almost laughed. Almost. But I was committed to the pettiness now.
When we reached the hotel and the bellboy opened the door for me, I came down like I was in mourning. The poor boy looked so confused he probably expected honeymoon energy. Instead, he met honeymoon warfare.
Once we got to the room, he locked the door and turned to me.
“Oya, madam, explain. What’s really the problem?”
I folded my arms. “Explain what? I’m not in the mood.”
He blinked.
“Not in the mood for your husband?”
I turned dramatically. “I’m going to bathe. Don’t follow me. In fact, go and bathe somewhere else. Go and meet your cousin.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“I’m calling Him too,” I snapped.
I took my bath like a queen scorned. Scrubbed like I was washing away betrayal. Came out in a towel and went straight to the bed, wrapping myself like a mummy.
My husband stood there in his singlet and boxers, hands on his waist, shaking his head.
“Wow. Marriage is already showing me pepper.”
I turned to the wall.
Ten minutes of silence passed. I could feel the tension. And the guilt. Okay, maybe I overdid it.
Maybe.
But I couldn’t give in too quickly. Let him sweat small.
Then I felt the bed shift. He came close and rubbed my back gently.
“Babe,” he whispered. “If I really danced too close to her, I’m sorry. But for real, she’s my cousin. I can show you the family tree.”
“You people have tree now? Abi it’s WhatsApp group you added her to?”
He chuckled softly.
I cracked. I let a little giggle out, then slapped my mouth quickly.
“Ahh, I heard that,” he said. “You laughed!”
“No I didn’t!”
“You did!”
“I’m still angry o!”
“Be angry later,” he said, pulling me in.
I struggled small. Then allowed myself to be held. After all, it was my wedding night, not my funeral.
He kissed my forehead.
I sighed. “You’re lucky I love you, sha.”
He smiled. “And you’re lucky I’m patient. Because you? You’re a whole circus.”
We both laughed.
Then he whispered, “But just so you know, the real punishment is coming later.”
I raised a brow. “What punishment?”
He winked. “You’ll find out. Wedding night loading.”
“Ahhh. God abeg.”
And that, dear reader, is how I gave my sweet husband premium emotional damage on our first night as husband and wife.
Did I sleep well? Yes. Did I sleep alone?
Mind your business.
Tima writes 🖤