Chapter 3: Corridor Wahala

My friends just dey look.

Dem face long like Monday morning. No one fit believe say this kind drama dey happen for wedding day.

My childhood guy, Efe, whispered, “You sure your babe no get hand for this?”

He bend near my ear, voice low. “Tunde, check am well.”

I shook my head sharp sharp. “No way.”

I answer quick, eyes straight. Seven years together—e for don show, I reason.

I met my girlfriend in university. We’ve been together for seven years—I know her well. This na her parents’ handiwork.

I trust am. Na people wey wan use her as cash cow dey do this one.

Everybody dragged me outside to talk.

All of us squeeze for corridor, the smell of fried fish and perfume mix together. Somebody dey tap my back, dey try calm me.

“Your mother-in-law just wan collect money today by force.”

“But we can’t just let Tunde pay ₦50 million. That one na daylight robbery.”

“If you ask me, forget it. Just carry the bride comot.”

“Worst case, after the wedding, Tunde go bring better drinks and cartons of malt come apologize.”

Efe even suggest make we do old school style—"Just run with your bride, dem go calm down later." Everybody dey reason am, some dey shake head.

After some talk, I went back in, still hoping.

My chest dey tight, my hand cold. I enter parlour, the smell of jollof rice still strong, but my appetite don die.

“Mummy, this security deposit really necessary?”

“Of course.”

No smile, no soft word. She just bone face.

My brother-in-law pointed at the bedroom behind him. “If you no pay, forget about entering that room today.”

He stand like security man, chest up, one hand on the door. Na small pikin wey dey form boss.

Fine, fine, fine.

I don try talk. Almost one hour don pass—we can’t delay anymore.

My eyes dey look clock every five minutes. The whole place dey hot, people dey shuffle legs.

I looked at my guys.

They nod small, ready to move. Na that time Efe’s street sense show.

Suddenly, Efe moved, and while my brother-in-law was distracted, dragged him away. The rest rushed to the door.

Efe na real Lagos boy. Sharp, no dull. In a flash, we see small hope.

My mother-in-law shouted, “Stop them, abeg, stop them!”

Her voice high pass generator. Everybody for compound hear am.

Seven or eight people rushed to block us from carrying the bride.

Na war zone be that corridor. Some uncles dey hold shirt, some dey push. My small cousin dey cry, thinking say na real fight.

Pushing, pulling, shouting—everywhere just scatter.

Na so suits tear, head tie scatter, even some shoes lose pair. All for bride price matter.

My custom-made suit tore, boutonniere fell off, my face dey pain from scratches.

E be like small village wrestling match. Na only God know how we go explain am for photo.

Just as I was about to give up, gbam! The door burst open.

Everybody freeze. The noise stop small.

The bridesmaids screamed together.

Their voice sharp, echo for corridor. Some dey use hand cover mouth, some just dey shout, "Blood of Jesus!"

My girlfriend, in her wedding dress, sat on the bed, shocked by the commotion.

Her gele and veil don shift, her eyes wide, mouth open. Na so she look me—confused, scared, but still fine.

I quickly bring out the fat brown envelope—normal for bride price wahala—give am to the bridesmaid.

She grab am with shaky hand. Even she dey fear wetin fit happen next.

Then I explained to my girlfriend, “Your parents say if I no give them ₦50 million, I can’t carry you. I no get choice. Abeg, let me carry you go—make we comot quick.”

But to my surprise, my girlfriend just sat there, no move.

She looked guilty.

Her face dey shadow, eyes red, finger dey press the wedding dress.

“Tunde, why you no just agree to their request?”

The question hang for air, like rain wey no wan fall.

Me: “What?”