Nigeria Content Online

This column’s
title is shamelessly plagiarised from a BBC article, ‘How I Bought My
South African Bride’ written by cameraman Christian Parkinson, a
love-struck destitute Briton who was lucky to have been accepted in
marriage by a South African named Kutlwano or “Kuts.” The essay’s title
must have caused a stir among all persons with good taste because it has
since been changed to a more dignified and politically correct header
thus: ‘Getting married the South African way’. Parkinson is said to have
hurriedly changed the title inside the doghouse where “Kuts” the wife
banished him for the rest of his miserable life. It is easy to conclude
that Parkinson’s essay is sexist and patronising, perhaps racist. The
wife “Kuts” does not have a surname, even though she is “educated.”
Parkinson gloats: “She is educated, beautiful and doesn’t have any
children. All of which puts her at a premium.” You almost wonder if
Parkinson is adopting a pet goat. I am sure that his wife “Kuts” is not
happy that the essay went viral on the internet. Parkinson will be in
the doghouse for the rest of his married life.

White folks are
interesting cheapskates; they view marrying our beautiful sisters as
buying the other. When they marry their own, they call it a wedding. Let
me just say that weddings are a multi-trillion dollar industry in
America. If President Barack Obama was to decree that American youth in
love with each other should simply walk into each other’s arms and live
happily ever after for free, the American economy would collapse
immediately. America’s economy is fuelled by the rich drool of happy
foolish young men willing to give their life’s earnings for the
privilege of marrying their gorgeous brides. We must not allow Africa to
become a museum of farce and hilarity. Happily, Nigeria is more
civilised than South Africa. Men do not buy women in Nigeria. The women
buy the men. Men simply pay dearly for the experience of being bought.
Where I come from in Nigeria, there are two things you must do that you
really don’t want to do thanks to huge expense. One is a funeral and the
other is a wedding. A part of the funeral or wedding ceremony is
usually conducted in the village where elders, neglected all these years
by thieving relatives, exact their revenge with sinful glee. They know
that you will be back to get married, and die (I don’t know which one
comes first or which one causes the other condition, but it happens).
They wait in the village with a laundry list of expensive demands one
mile long. And like a police bribe, you must pay up. In the grand
tradition of our African ancestors, our elders only accept dollars and
euro please.

I love my wife. A man in love is more dangerous than a drunk driver.
When I first spied my future bride, I became a babbling idiot. I had
never met anyone that pretty. I followed her everywhere. I am not making
this up; she lived 400 miles from Washington DC where I was living at
the same time. I exaggerate slightly when I tell you that each midnight,
I would miss her greatly. Not a problem. I would get in my jalopy, a
criminally neglected car with no spare tyre, and drive all night to be
with her. And then drive back to work at dawn. I was young then. And
stupid. And happy in love. After all these years, things haven’t cooled
off between us; however age is slowing down my poor judgment. Today,
when my lover asks me to get up from the sofa to go fetch her favourite
ice cream (butter pecan ice cream) you would think she is ordering me to
go execute myself. Like an unwashed caveman, I belch, scratch my butt,
and whine all the way to the fridge and back. It is not my fault. Old
age is hard on one’s resolve and energy. These days we meet at the sofa
that we jointly own (the bank owns everything else) where I love to hear
her recite the loving things I no longer do since we got married. I
love my lover’s voice still; when we were courting, she would tell me
lovingly: ‘You don come again! Na wa! Abeg go away jo!” Her rejection
slips sang Pablo Neruda to my lonely soul. Those who know me, know that
I am nothing, if not relentless. I had it all planned, she was going to
be my lawful wedded wife even if it killed us. I became a pain in the
ass to her family, hounding them every day to the point where they
threatened to go on a hunger strike if she did not marry me. I am making
all of this up of course. My lover was glad to marry me, Handsome
Ikhide. I just made all of that up because I ran out of nice things to
say about African writers this week. I shall be back next week.