Say Yes To The Best Man Chapter 2

Chapter Two: Everything Is Bought on Instalment Blessing had a theory about Emeka Obi, and she shared it before Kemi had even put her bag down. "A man who argues with you about parking is a man who likes you," she said. She was sitting on the edge of the desk with a bag of plantain chips and a crumb on her chin. "That is science." "That is nonsense." Kemi dropped her bag on the chair. "He is the best man. He is a work contact. He is also very rude." "Rude, how?" "He asked me how many cars. In front of the bride's mother." "Terrible," Blessing said, nodding. "Truly, a criminal." The office of Forever & A Day Events was one room above a phone shop in Lekki, with a pink door, a loud air conditioner, and three phones that never stopped ringing. Blessing Etim had been Kemi's best friend since university and her assistant since the day Kemi could finally afford one. She wore bright lipstick, spoke her mind, and had a way of looking at Kemi that said, "I know you." "Stop smiling," Kemi said. "I'm not smiling." "You are smiling with your whole face." "It's my face. I can't help it." Blessing slid off the desk and held out the folder for the day. "Venue visit at eleven. Mr. Dada from Grandview Hall is expecting you. The groom's side will send someone." "Tobi?" "Emeka." Kemi closed her eyes. "Of course." Grandview Hall sat on the edge of Victoria Island like a wedding cake in a suit. It had white pillars, a green lawn, and a ceiling covered in crystal lights that Kemi had loved since the first time she saw it. She had a good feeling about it. She had already told Funmi so. Emeka was there before her. He stood by the gate in a clean shirt, with his sleeves rolled up and a notebook in his hand. He looked at his watch when she got out of the car. Then he held it up so she could see it. "Ten fifty-two. I'm early. Write it down." "I will frame it." "Please do. Use a nice frame." Mr. Dada, the hall manager, came out to meet them with a smile that was almost too polite. He was a round man in a tight blue suit, and he spoke about the hall like a father speaking about a daughter who had many suitors. He showed them the main floor, the stage, the bride's room, and the long white staircase that Funmi would walk down in a gown. Emeka said very little. He walked the whole hall slowly, counting under his breath. He checked the doors. He pressed a hand against a wall and looked at the ceiling. At one point he knelt and tapped the floor. "What are you doing?" Kemi whispered. "Looking." "For what?" "For what you did not ask about." She nearly said something unkind, but he was already walking away toward the back of the hall, where a big grey generator sat behind a metal fence. Mr. Dada hurried after him. "This is for the hall," Mr. Dada said. "It is very strong." "What size is it?" "It is big." "Big is not a size, sir." It turned out the generator could carry the lights, or it could carry the air conditioning, but not both. Not for six hundred people in a hot December hall. Mr. Dada said this was usual. Emeka said it was usual until the moment the music stopped and the groom's uncles started sweating through their agbada. Kemi stood very still and felt her face go warm. She had missed it. She never missed things. "We will bring a second generator," she said at last. "Good idea," Emeka said, not smugly, which made it worse. In the manager's office, with a tiny fan turning above them, Mr. Dada slid a paper across the desk. "To secure the date, forty percent deposit today. It is non-refundable. December is very busy." Kemi reached for her pen. "Can we pay in two parts?" Emeka asked. She stopped. "I'm sorry?" "Twenty percent today, twenty next week. Or is the deposit at least refundable if something changes?" "Nothing will change," Kemi said. "Things change." "Not for weddings." "Everything changes for weddings. Caterers change. Cousins change. Brides change their minds about the colour of the napkins." Mr. Dada looked from one to the other like a man watching two goats fight over a bag of rice. "Excuse us a moment," Kemi said, standing up. She did not wait for an answer. She walked straight out into the sun, and Emeka followed. The car park was hot and half empty. A security guard watched them from under a tree and pretended not to listen. "What was that?" Kemi demanded. "A question." "It was a very strange question. Nobody asks if a wedding deposit is refundable. It is like asking if the bride's father can pay for a funeral first." "Everything in Lagos is bought on installments," Emeka said. "Even rice." "A wedding is not rice." "I know that." "If we lose this date, we lose this hall. And if we lose this hall, I have fifteen weeks to find something with a staircase and crystal lights for six hundred people. Do you know how hard that is?" "I'm not trying to lose the hall. I'm asking you to be careful with Tobi's family's money." "I am always careful with money." "You are careful with the dream." He said it quietly, without heat. "You plan like someone who has never seen a wedding fall apart." The words went into her like a thumb into a bruise. For a second the car park was gone. She was nine years old again, in a dress that itched, watching her father shout at her mother in front of the guests. The cake had been very big. She remembered that. The cake had been enormous. Kemi looked away. She picked a spot on the ground and stared at it until it stopped swimming. "I have seen one," she said. "More than one." Emeka was silent. When she glanced up, the sharpness had left his face. He looked like a man who had stepped on something fragile and was not sure what it was. "I did not mean it that way." "Yes, you did. But thank you." He almost smiled. Then, without saying anything, he walked to his old white Toyota, opened the boot, and came back with a cold bottle of water. He held it out. The plastic was sweating in his hand. "You've been standing in the sun for ten minutes," he said. "I'm not good at saying sorry. But I can do water." She took it. It was the coldest thing she had touched all week. In the end they made a deal. Forty percent that same day, but Mr. Dada would add a line to the paper allowing the date to be moved once without a penalty. It was a small line, written by hand, but Kemi read it twice and decided she could live with it. Emeka signed as the groom's representative. His handwriting was terrible. "There," she said, pushing the pen back. "Everyone is happy." "Everyone is alive," Emeka said. "It's close." She left first. As she reached her car, she looked back at the hall, and she saw him standing at the edge of the lawn with his phone in his hand. He was reading something. Whatever it was, it drained the humour from his face and left something heavy behind. She knew that look. She had worn it herself for years. It was the look of a person carrying a bag that is much too heavy and smiling so nobody will ask. Kemi stood there with the cold bottle in her hand, and for the first time in a long while, she wanted to ask.