The Search for Mr Right (E1 – E12)
E1 - The Search for Mr Right: I Lost My Home Training In Church
The last Sunday of the year. I couldn’t be more grateful to God who had preserved me and I had gone to church to show him how grateful I really was.
I entered the Tabernacle which had been tastefully furnished because of the Thanksgiving celebration. Simply gorgeous. As I walked down the aisle to my favorite spot, I wondered what it would have felt like if I had been walking towards my husband. I imagined what he would look like, standing so handsome, tall and beaming with smiles.
Argh! Mama put these thoughts in my head, I couldn’t stop thinking about getting married now. Every man that was unfortunate enough to be in my line of vision was subjected to a rigorous process of downsizing. I analyzed every nose, gait, and height that crossed my way. I’m vain, I know, but before I graduated last two months, I never had to think of men like that. They used to be buddies, now they were husband-material.
I had my yellow lace gown that hugged my every curve on. Mama picked it specifically. She is certain that the reason I wasn’t married yet is because I wasn’t wearing enough gowns. I didn’t look like a wife in my Jeans and snapbacks. Mama had a lot of advice for me this trying period and I would be a fool to not follow through.
Just as I took my seat waiting for the service to start, along came this tall drink of mortal perfection. Chiseled face, high cheekbones, pink lips, legs for days, black hot chocolate human, the perfect ‘Yoruba demon’ complete with the agbada and pointed cap ensemble. Dear Lord!
Will I survive like this?
Usually, it was the fat woman with two babies or the grandpa with decaying teeth who sits beside me in church. On both sides, my people! But the Lord decided to give me an end-of-the-year present as this my Yoruba demon took a seat beside me. Oh, the joy! I could almost hear the angels singing. I thought the Lord was done with his surprises but no!
He made the demon speak. Figuratively, a demon, please. He spoke to me and his voice rolled over my skin like melted butter. I had to ask him to repeat what he said.
“Do you have an envelope to spare, please?”
“I have a heart to spare, my love.
I gave him the envelope and I’m certain he was about to tell me how much he loved me too when the boom of the mic interrupted us.
“Shall we all rise to our feet and begin to thank the Lord for his mercies! Open your mouth and…”
What God has joined together, he will definitely not put asunder. This conversation must continue later. The Lord is not a man that he should not complete his work.
The service went on. Every ministration extolling the name of the Lord and his faithfulness. My demon was so focused, and that made my ovaries sing! He looked like he loved and feared the Lord. Ain’t I a lucky girl?
Then the time we had all been waiting for, the Thanksgiving dance!
“We are about to give God a dance of praise!
Get your dancing shoes, children of God!”
The pastor bellowed.
If only I could dance. My dancing was parallel to having an epileptic fit and I couldn’t have an epileptic fit this close to my dream man! By the way, Uncle was already adjusting his agbada ready to give it to the Lord.
Okay, Mama told me never to dance in public, I might scare away my future husband. She’s certain that’s one of the reasons I wasn’t married yet. I’ve always obeyed that commandment, one more time wouldn’t hurt.
Instruments started playing. I must control myself. The chorister started singing. He started with a soulful rendition of ‘All the glory must be to the Lord… I almost got tearful at this point. It had been a trying year but we came out on top.
Then praises started. People started moving. My Yoruba demon was swaying but I remained motionless. I must marry next year! I proclaimed within. I Can’t have my demon thinking I was anything short of a perfect princess.
As the songs of Thanksgiving played, flashes began to run through my mind. Mom’s sickness and subsequent recovery, my graduation after Dad’s death the previous year which almost put a stop to my education, my new job, my asthma attacks which are almost nonexistent now, the accident my kid sister had survived, the fact that my mom could smile again… I could go on and on. It had been a fabulous 2018.
And I would trade My demon for it. Then I started dancing, I closed my eyes and savored the moment. Hands flailing, legs moving to dangerous angles. I was certain my face had morphed into something sinister and horror movie worthy. Still, nothing was stopping me from dancing to my God.
The tempo increased! The tabernacle was in an uproar! A heady combination of sweat and undiluted joy! The Lord had descended! My shoes were getting too tight, I took them off as well as my ‘home training’. Mama told me never to walk barefoot. Now, I was dancing barefoot,If only she could see me.
When I tried to do the Gwara Gwara dance, I’m sure it looked like my leg was broken and I was trying to pick something up. Sad, I know. I heard something rip. I looked down and I sighed in relief as I discovered that it was a slight rip of my dress at the knee-length. Fantastic. Ain’t no stopping me now. I had nothing left to lose.
With a loud bang, the praise ended and I jumped in ecstasy and appreciation. I was so happy! I looked to my side to check if my demon was as happy as I was but he was gone. Poof! Just like that. He was probably traumatized by my epileptic dancing.
Sigh. I was starting to frown when I caught myself. My God and how I treated Him is all that mattered.
And so I walked home after the Thanksgiving service, soaked in my own sweat, with my ripped husband-fishing gown and my made up face dripping in patches of L’Oreal foundation and what-nots.
Happy and Contented. Husband hunting will continue tomorrow abeg.
Image source: pixabay license provides for free commercial use and no attribution is required.
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