Say Yes To The Best Man Chapter 3

Chapter Three: Mama Obi Has a Plan Mama Obi opened the gate herself, and she did not look at Kemi's face. She looked at Kemi's hands. "No ring," she said happily. "Chineke, thank you." "Mummy," Emeka said. "I said nothing." "You said thank you to God." "Is that not allowed?" It was Saturday afternoon in Surulere. The Obi family house was a faded cream bungalow with a mango tree in front, a parked Peugeot with no wheels, and a smell of pepper soup that could be sensed from the street. Tobi's family were holding the groom's side meeting here. Tobi had grown up half in this house, and Mama Obi had fed him since he was nine. She called him her second son, and she meant it. Kemi had arrived with a folder, a tablet, and her calmest face. Within four minutes, she knew the calm face would not be enough. "Come, come, my daughter. Sit down. Nne, sit here, next to the fan." Mama Obi was a small woman in a bright blue wrapper, with sharp eyes and a voice that filled every corner of the room. "Have you eaten?" "I had breakfast, ma." "Breakfast is not food. It is a rumor." A plate of jollof rice appeared in front of Kemi. Then a second plate, with fried plantain and chicken. Then a cold bottle of Fanta. She looked helplessly at Emeka, who was sitting on the other side of the room with his notebook open and his face carefully blank. "Eat," he mouthed. "I cannot eat all this." "You can. It's a skill." The meeting began slowly. Tobi's uncles had joined them, three men in agbada who all spoke at once, and an aunt who kept asking whether the bride's family had remembered the list of things for the traditional engagement. Kemi took notes. She nodded. She answered questions about fabric, drummers, and who would carry which tray. Every few minutes, Mama Obi leaned in and asked her something that had nothing to do with weddings. "Your mother, is she well?" "Yes, ma." "And your father?" "Also well." It was almost true. He lived in Abuja now, and they spoke twice a year. "Where is your people from?" "Ogun State, ma." "Ah, good. Hardworking people. And what do you do on Sundays?" "I rest." "Do you go to church?" "Sometimes." "Good. Good." Mama Obi nodded slowly, like a woman adding up numbers in her head. Then she turned her head sharply toward her son. "Emeka. Come and help Miss Bankole with the pepper soup." "Mummy, she doesn't need help." "Then come and carry it." Emeka stood up with the face of a man walking to his own trial. In the kitchen doorway, he leaned close to Kemi and said, very low, "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should have warned you." "Warned me about what?" "She is doing the thing." "What thing?" "The thing where she decides who I will marry." Kemi stared at him. Then she started to laugh. It came out of her before she could stop it, a quick, honest laugh that made her put a hand over her mouth. In the next room, the uncles went quiet to listen. "It's not funny," Emeka whispered. "It is a little funny." "It's mostly funny," he admitted. "But it's also my life." Mama Obi appeared between them with a tray and the straight face of an innocent woman. "Kemi, my dear, do you cook?" "I can make toast." "Ah." Mama Obi did not flinch. "A woman with a career. That is even better. She will not look at my son's salary." "Mummy!" "What? I am complimenting her." The meeting ended at five o'clock, with Kemi carrying a bag of leftover rice, a promise to visit again, and a small bottle of homemade chilli oil that Mama Obi pressed into her hand like a blessing. At the gate, the older woman held her wrist for a moment. "My son is a good boy," she said quietly. "Too good. He carries everybody's load and never asks who will carry his. You will be patient with him." "We are only working together, ma." "Of course." Mama Obi smiled sweetly. "Work is how the best things start." Kemi drove away with the windows down, and she could not stop smiling. It was a ridiculous afternoon. It was also, if she was being honest, the nicest one she had had in months. * * * Emeka waited until the last uncle had gone before he sat down on the front step. The sun was low. The mango tree threw a long shadow across the yard, and somewhere down the road a generator coughed itself awake. He was tired in the way that sleep does not fix. At six-thirty, Tobi's car pulled up outside the gate. Tobi did not come in. He sat behind the wheel for a long time, engine off, until Emeka walked down and got into the passenger seat. The car smelled like cologne and hot leather. "Mama has done well today," Tobi said, trying for a joke. "Fifty guests will come from this house alone." "Tobi." "Yes." "Why are you here?" Tobi laughed, a short, empty sound. His hands were tight on the steering wheel. In all the years Emeka had known him, Tobi had never been quiet for this long. He was the boy who talked through exams, funerals, and a robbery once. Silence did not suit him. "I need to tell you something," Tobi said. "And I need you to not say anything until I finish." "Okay." "Promise." "I promise." Tobi breathed in. "I love Funmi." "I know." "I really do. She is kind, and funny, and she believes in me more than I do. She would be a wonderful wife. Everybody says so." "But?" "But last night I was looking at the invitation card, the one with our names in gold, and I felt like I was reading about somebody else. A man in a movie. I looked at it and I thought, who is that? That is not me. I don't know that man." His voice cracked on the last word. "Something is wrong with me, Emeka. I should be happy. I should be counting the days. Instead I am counting the exits." Emeka said nothing. The silence in the car grew thick. "It is probably nerves," Tobi said quickly. "Everyone gets nerves. My cousin cried in the toilet before his wedding, and now they have three children. I just need time. After the wedding it will be fine. It will be fine, I know it." "Tobi, if you are not sure, you must tell her. Not after. Now." "I can't. Her mother has already paid for everything. Her father has invited half of Lagos. If I say something, I destroy them. I will destroy her." He turned, and his eyes were wet. "Please. Please, I'm begging you. Do not tell anybody. Not Funmi. Not the planner. Not your mother. Just keep it between us until the wedding is over." Every sensible thought in Emeka's head said no. But Tobi was his oldest friend. He had shared a bed with him in a boarding school dormitory. He had lent him money, driven him to the airport, and stood with him at his father's burial. When Tobi looked at him like this, with that frightened, hopeful, boyish face, it was impossible to say the word. "I will not say anything," he heard himself answer. "For now." "Thank you." Tobi closed his eyes. "Thank you, my brother. It will be fine." Emeka got out of the car and stood alone in the dusk for a while. His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Kemi. Tomorrow's cake tasting is at 10 a.m. sharp. I know you can be on time when you try. Bring your appetite. And thank Mama Obi again for the chilli oil. I already ate half of it with bread. K. He read it twice. Then a third time. He had never wanted so badly to arrive early to something. And he had never felt so much like a liar for it.