I'm frowning into a wedding photograph I attended in 1994 (I think?) that features my humble self, neatly tucked into an oversized yellow tuxedo with designer shoes to match; my mum, and the just wedded couple. A pool of sweat had gathered in the middle of my clean shaven skull and I could almost visualize myself move in the photograph, every now and then, raising my left palm to swipe off the puddle that gather periodically at the centre of my head. Oh! And those shoes! How could I ever forget them? I never referred to those shoes as one pair because, in all honesty, they were not.
Ah! Those brown shoes. With a silver shiny Luigi Pastore, which I guessed was the name of the designer, glued on the floor of each of them. It had to be a designer product; after all, the name was Italian. Only problem was the left one seemed bigger than the right. So while my right foot fitted effortlessly into its right counterpart, my left leg had problem filling the spaces around it. To cross that hurdle, pieces of paper, cloth, and plywood found their way into the left shoe.
But I'm still looking at this 16 year old photograph and wondering if that was me in my former life. I can't even understand it. One moment it seems like I never posed for that photo shot, the next it looks like it was just yesterday. Let's see if I can recall some milestones over the past 16 years – Ok, I lost my old man and grandma… wrote WAEC and JAMB… university… NYSC… and now this. Did I leave out sex? No! But I would have loved to leave out that unpleasant incident in my last year in sec school. Chikere Amadi. Oh Chikere Amadi. One name I'd definitely carry into my grave. My face. Oh my face. How you suffered under the impact of Chikere Amadi's blows. I can't actually remember what led to the fight but I remember, vividly, that by the time he was done with me, I was barely recognizable for the next one week. My face was so swollen up my glasses could no longer fit. I couldn't even inspect the extent of the damage in a mirror. The horror I saw in people's eyes whenever I appear told me it was quite bad. As if that was not enough, the wicked fellow also appeared in my dreams to continue from where he stopped. Nightfall became a nightmare. And I stopped watching Boxing on TV. It brings back the bad memories.
Back to this photograph I've been staring at. I remember how I'd always feel that weddings were for grownups and as a child; it'd never get to my turn. Well how wrong I was. If only time had stood still. First, it was the very elderly ones. My reason? I'm too young. Then the elder ones, and I still reasoned I was still young. And then the bug crept to my immediate seniors and I'm like, 'Hey, am I getting old or are people getting young?' Now it is my peers and colleagues and cousins. An unseen umpire seemed to have blown the whistle and everybody seems to be scrambling to get married. Hmmmm.
I thought I had my life and future all planned out - graduate, get a very good paying job, buy a house, and at least, two cars. And then go hunt for a lady I can shovel off her feet. Now I realize the effect of those things I was smoking back then. If I still have to stick to that plan, then I could (not even would) wait till I'm 60 or 70. When my contemporaries would be retiring to their children and grandchildren, I would be hunting for a lady to shovel off her feet. Who knows if I would even be strong enough to do the shovelling? Kai!.........
(P.S This piece has been suspended till further notice. I became traumatized at this point and could no longer continue).
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