Our invitation read “the parents …… and ….. request your presence at the joining of their children, Dr. Femi and Dr. Bola in holy matrimony.” Our wedding was the talk of town. Our wedding announcements were all over the news, blogs, and Nigerian websites. The single ladies envied me and gossiped about me in their domestic corners. Our guests were invited from all over the world. Our traditional wedding (cultural West-African) took place in a sophisticated island for the elites in Lagos, Nigeria. All six of my wedding planners were on stand-by making sure I was pleased on my dream day. Assorted wines were imported from France; even the goats killed for the occasion got a respectful death.

My husband is a US-trained brain surgeon. He is brilliantly sought after by the best of the best. He is naturally quiet in nature, but the grandeur of this day blew him away. Our guests were all given a uniform attire to grace our day in style. It was very amusing seeing our white friends in our traditional African attire. Our photographers, bloggers, and videographers were all imported from aboard. Presidents, Princes, and Princesses from different African countries honored our invitation. The best chefs and cooks served our eloquent dishes and Nigerian delicacies.

This is the wedding of my dream and I am not happy. The man I wanted was in his house drowning in his tears. I can’t stand the mere sight of him crying. I pleaded with him to understand. He cried, “What should I understand? Bola, I have dated you for six years and you are about to marry somebody else!! Why is this happening to me? I did not touch you from the very beginning because I wanted to marry..” (sobbing). We both cried and held each other. In my tears, I saw myself holding the man of my dreams while wearing another man’s engagement ring. My life became complicated.

Suku is a self-made millionaire with no college degree. My parents told me that they don’t want to associate themselves with an illiterate. I told them, he is not an illiterate, he is a millionaire. My father told me, “I am not interested in illiterate money.” For three years I pleaded with my parents to allow me to marry the man I loved, they refused. One precious day my mother blatantly scorned me about Suku saying she didn’t marry an illiterate and that only over her dead body would she allow me marry my love.

All Suku and I know to do these days is to hold each other and cry. He finally told me that he loved me so much that he will allow me to honor my parent’s wishes. I begged him not to give up on our love, he said, he wasn’t but he couldn’t watch me wait forever for an answer that will never come. We both cried for weeks when I told him that my parents agreed to Dr. Femi’s proposal to me. Dr. Femi is a great man with wonderful attributes; I already gave my heart to someone else. That guy my parents call an “illiterate” is the man of my dreams. He doesn’t have a college degree; he worked hard for every cent of his money. He built a multi-million naira business from scratch as an orphan.

This part is for my Nigerian ladies, who like me, are manipulated by their Nigerian parents to marry people they don’t want to marry. Don’t allow your Nigerian parents make the most important life decision for you. After the guests leave, the music stops, you take off your wedding dress, and marriage begins!! Life is too short to live with regrets. Make your own decisions, and take responsibility for the negative outcomes of your decisions. Your parents will one day die and leave you with your husband and you will have to figure it out. Don’t marry for status or to please anyone. I am not saying don’t listen to your parents, I am saying make your own decision and don’t let your parents make it for you. Marriage is a lifelong commitment.

Take your time and choose accordingly!!!

My marriage with Dr. Femi didn’t last.  The size of the love matters more than the size of the wedding. Money CAN’T buy happiness. Status CAN’T buy happiness.

I am back in the arms of the man of my dreams. I choose love. I choose Suku!

Respectfully yours,

Bola.

Edited by: Kelli Busbee

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