Getting married was never part of my dreams. Not at eighteen. Not when I've barely experienced a real relationship. I mean, I've had crushes, a few almost-lovers, but nothing close to the kind of connection you'd want before committing your life to someone.
Yet here I am—moments away from marrying a complete stranger. I didn't even know my mom had it in her to be this cruel.
I don't know who the hell I'm getting married to.
Is he kind?
Is he strict?
Is he even remotely handsome?
Or am I being thrown into the arms of a beast with a pretty last name?
My thoughts raced like wild horses in a burning stable, galloping in every direction.
My heart beat out of rhythm, not from excitement—but dread.
As my panic spiraled, the hairdresser accidentally pushed a pin too deep into my scalp. The sharp pain jolted me back to reality.
"Ouch," I muttered.
"Sorry! I didn't mean to," she said, her voice tinged with guilt.
"It's alright," I replied, offering her a small, forgiving smile. Her shoulders relaxed, and the tension on her face melted away.
Then—bam!—the door flung open.
My mother swept into the room like a breeze of joy I couldn't understand. I had never seen her this radiant. Her smile was blinding, her steps graceful, as if this moment meant everything to her.
She cupped my face gently, her hands warm and trembling with excitement. With a simple gesture, she dismissed the women attending to me. They left quietly, closing the door behind them.
"Mom…" I began, my voice tight with frustration.
But she interrupted me with a dramatic wave of her hand. "Nah-ah. Not today. It's your wedding day, and you look absolutely gorgeous, my child."
Her voice was soaked in pride—but I could barely focus on her words. My stomach twisted. My future felt like a tightrope stretched over fire.
"Mom, I'm not ready," I tried again, softer this time. "I don't even know what's going to happen. It's scary. Don't you see that?"
"Sweetheart, everything will be fine," she replied with a tone too smooth, too dismissive. "You'll meet him soon."
"At least show me his picture," I pleaded.
She shook her head gently. "No, darling. I don't even have his picture on my phone. You'll see him after you're dressed."
That's when the knot in my chest pulled tighter.
Before I could protest again, she sat beside me and took my hand. Her eyes locked onto mine—serious, stern, and sharp like a blade.
"Listen to me carefully, Elodie. You're getting married today. This is not a fairy tale where you run away in a white dress and escape your fate. There's no room for rebellion or foolish decisions. You will stand by his side as his wife. You will take care of him and his family. And you will not disobey him."
The weight of her words dropped like chains over my shoulders.
"He comes from a reputable family, and you will not embarrass me by acting like a child. You're a woman now. Take responsibility. I promise—you'll be fine."
"Fine? You are not the one getting married of course I'll be fine" I screamed internally.
I wish she understood that I'm not okay, I know she wants the best for me but I just wished she could feel my emotions__they are literally everywhere.
That's just it with Nigerian parents, they care too much of their child's future, ready to secure it at any chance given not really giving the ounce of care of the emotional state of the child. As scary and fantastic that sounds it's also comforting, she got me. Thinking about that I mustered a smile .
My throat tightened. My makeup was light—just two layers—but I could feel the tears rising, threatening to break free. Mom noticed and gently wiped my eyes before a single drop could ruin the illusion.
"I see you want to keep your face natural," she said softly. "That's fine. But you look so beautiful, Elodie. Today is every mother's dream come true. You must be strong and take life as it comes… because this is your destiny."
Destiny.
A word people use when they want you to surrender.
She stood and pulled me into a hug—warm and tight like a goodbye. I clung to her, wishing she could feel how hollow I felt inside, I'm scared of what will come for crying out loud. Then I wiped the tears from her own eyes before she turned and walked away.
Thirty minutes later, the girls returned. My dress was ready. My hair was done. My soul? Still screaming.
I stood before the mirror and hardly recognized the girl staring back at me. She was beautiful—more beautiful than I'd ever believed I could be. People told me all the time, but this… this was different. The gown was breathtaking: diamond stones lined the edges like a sky full of stars, and the intricate designs around my waist hugged me like royalty.
My fingers trembled as I touched the fabric, wondering if beauty could hide fear.
I didn't feel ready.
But I looked ready.
As the girls helped me out the door, a quiet hush filled the air, as though the walls themselves respected the gravity of the moment. The driver waited by the car. My bridesmaids followed, their soft whispers like background noise in a dream.
The car door opened, and I stepped inside. The seat was cold, but not colder than my thoughts.
Outside the window, the world moved—people going about their lives, unaware that mine was being handed to a stranger.
We drove in silence, and I watched the buildings pass like distant memories. My heart thumped like it was counting down seconds, not beats.
As the car rolled toward St. Lucy Cathedral, all I could think about was the man waiting at the altar.
A stranger.
My husband.
I was a bride.
But I didn't feel like one.
I was a girl in a white dress, heading toward a man I didn't know, with a name I didn't choose, for a life I didn't ask for.