It was then my mother’s turn.
“We know it’s not easy being a mother; carrying your daughter for nine months, feeding her, running to the hospital when malaria struck, soothing her when she cried, traveling to Kpando to visit her in boarding school. We know it’s a difficult job and you have done it well; that is why we have brought these things for you. We thank you for taking care of her for us,” the tsiami said, his voice less playful; someone must have told him our story of hardship. My mother’s thank you was as effusive as Tɔgã Pious’s but the tsiami didn’t interrupt her. I didn’t have to see her face to know the joy she was feeling; her sacrifice was being acknowledged by important people in front of those who had once thought nothing of her.
Fred, through the tsiami, presented more gifts. White envelopes to the other uncles for helping Tɔgã Pious raise me and to the aunts for minding me when my mother was away. There were gifts to the older cousins for holding my hand on the way to school and to the younger cousins for playing with me after school. It was only after this that Aunty Sylvia ushered Mawusi into the gathering.
“Here she is,” I heard Aunty Sylvia declare playfully, a minute later, before adding, “Are you saying she’s not the one?” There was laughter and then a chorus of “No.” “Okay, I will go fetch her, but you have to give me something small. I have to cross a bridge to get to where she is and there is a tollbooth,” Aunty Sylvia said slyly. There was more laughter and a long pause—during which I imagined one of the Ganyos handing a few notes to Aunty Sylvia. This time she and my mother came into the room in which I was waiting.
“Are you ready?” my mother asked as Aunty Sylvia waited in the doorway.
I nodded and then swallowed loudly.
“Don’t be afraid,” my mother said, reaching for my hand.
I nodded again and squeezed her hand until mine hurt. We both flinched. I was afraid.
“Afi, there’s no reason to worry, no reason to be afraid. You have made me so proud. You have wiped away my tears, you have removed my shame. Because of you, those who laughed at me are now laughing with me. May God bless you, my daughter,” she said, a hitch in her breath.
“Yes,” Aunty Sylvia said under her breath, reluctant to interrupt the moment but impatient to move things along.
I hugged my mother tightly.
“Your makeup,” she said and pulled away when my face touched her hair.
“The people are waiting,” Aunty Sylvia reminded us softly when it seemed like I would not let go of my mother.
She and my mother, each holding a freshly manicured hand, then led me outside to ululation, applause, and somewhere in the back, the rhythmic rattles of an axatse.
They deposited me in front of our two families. I was acutely aware of every eye inspecting me for flaws. I searched for Aunty. She sat plump and dignified in the front row, her kaba and slit made of a fabric too unremarkable to recall, a thin gold chain culminating in a small, unshaped nugget at the base of her throat. She was flanked by her sons; Fred, big with muscles, sat at her right, and Richard, smaller and rounder, the stand-in for Eli, was comfortably tucked into the chair to her left. An almost-blind paternal uncle, representing Eli’s late father’s side of the family, also occupied the front row. Aunty’s only daughter, Yaya, dressed in lace that rivaled mine and a glittering head-tie modeled after a hexagon, sat in the second row with other relatives. Fred’s wife, Cecelia, sat beside her in a less eye-catching ensemble. I followed my mother’s lead and shook their hands before greeting my relatives. My heart began to beat faster when I took my seat beside Richard. I think I would have been less apprehensive if Eli himself had been present. Then I would have known what he really thought of me. Aunty had told me that Eli was happy to be marrying me. Indeed, when he called my phone from Hong Kong, he had said that he looked forward to spending time with me. He had apologized for having to miss our wedding, a last-minute change of plans. There was pressing overseas business that required his attention. But that had been such a short conversation and there had been so much static on the line that he sounded like a robot.
Eli had always been a distant figure. He was the son who lived overseas; the most successful of the three brothers but the least visible. He had attended senior secondary school thirteen years before I did and had graduated from the university while my hair was still cropped short in the style of a schoolgirl. I saw him once during the long vacation when he visited the flour depot where I would go to help my mother. I remember him smiling kindly at me, or in my direction, and sending one of the shop boys to buy a bottle of Coke for every worker. I had been in awe of him; after all, he was Aunty’s son. The son who wore starched khaki shorts that revealed the length of his sturdy legs and a Lacoste shirt that hugged the muscles of his chest and biceps; who drove a Peugeot 504, which had once been used to ferry his mother around town; who was about to graduate from the university. The man who might one day own the house we lived in and the store that employed my mother. How could I not be in awe? And now, how could he not be at our wedding? I knew that men were sometimes unable to attend, but it was usually because of issues beyond their control: expired visas and resident permits, insufficient funds to afford plane tickets for themselves and their new brides, poor health. But I had never heard of a man missing his wedding because of a business trip. What kind of business keeps a man away from his own wedding?
This question had been bouncing around in my head since the Hong Kong call. Now as Father Wisdom blessed the Bible and the gold band that Richard had brought, the crushing doubt seeped back into my chest. What had I gotten myself into? Would I be able to do what had been requested of me? Requested by Aunty, by my mother, by every guest here? To my right, my mother smiled widely. That unfettered smile, which I hadn’t seen in almost a decade, was the embodiment of years of hope, previously buried by death, by the stresses of life. Across from me, Aunty’s round face was reposed, at rest; the face of a woman satisfied at having solved her greatest problem. Around me her people buzzed with excitement; thanks to me, their man would soon be theirs again.
If Eli had been there, I would have known with certainty from the pride on his face as his sister presented me with two large rolling suitcases wrapped in sparkly gift paper, extras packed with clothes and shoes. I would have known from his satisfied smile when I answered “Yes” to Tɔgã Pious’s question: “Afi, should we accept the schnapps they brought?” I would have known from how tightly he hugged me after he gave me the Bible and slid the ring on my finger and how hearty his “Amen” was when Father Wisdom blessed our marriage and reminded me to be a respectful and loving wife. Instead I had to make do with Richard. And I had to continue to wonder.
Four hours later and it was over. The guests had eaten and drunk, after which some protested that they hadn’t had enough food, or enough drinks, or enough gifts. They wanted some of the restaurant food that was being eaten inside, by the chosen few, at a table with forks and knives. They wanted take-away packs that would feed them for supper. This was a Ganyo wedding after all. Nancy’s scowl eventually sent them on their way but not before they grabbed what they could: one grilled tilapia wrapped in a paper towel and then in a headscarf, a glass shoved into a purse, a set of cutlery slipped into a gift bag, two plastic chairs hidden behind a water drum from where they would later be retrieved and placed in Tɔgã Pious’s bedroom. Everyone had to get something out of this union.