Chapter 1: The Price of Pride

The year hunger wahala start, my aunty send me go stay with my fiancé’s family, the Okolis.

That year ehn, hunger just dey do everybody like play. Even garri wey dey soak no get sugar, and children dey cry for night. My aunty, she no even look my side well, just dey rush arrange marriage as if na only me remain for house. She pack my small Ghana-Must-Go, squeeze one old wrapper for bottom, and send me off. She spit for ground three times—say make bad luck no follow me go. Even as I dey waka, neighbours dey peep from their window dey gossip: 'See as Lilian dey go Okoli house, hope say Okoli people get enough to chop.'

Okoli Yanli no rate me at all. He look my tattered clothes up and down, then just point anyhow at the empty sugar clay jar wey dey table.

As I stand for their parlour, Okoli Yanli no even send me greeting. The way him face dey do, e be like say I dey carry bad luck. I gawk the sugar clay jar, the empty inside dey mock me, but I still gather liver, bend small, greet everybody for parlour. Nobody answer me except small Chijioke wey nod for my side. My chest dey tight, but I no go show them say I dey feel am. If I cry here, dem go use am laugh me for compound.

"Okoli family no get money buy you cloth for wedding dress o." He say am with him chest, even hiss join, as if to talk say na my fault say cloth cost for market. Na you sabi, if you wan fine dress, better find tailor for your papa side. My aunty shift leg, clear throat, try smile, but the thing no sweet anybody for house.

"When you fit save money fill that jar, na that time I go marry you."

Ehn, to save money no easy at all.

As I hear the matter, my body just weak. I dey calculate inside my mind—where I wan see money wey go fill that big clay jar? Even Chijioke look me, pity dey his eye. But pride no go gree make I cry for front of everybody, so I bone face, tie wrapper well, nod head, and tell myself, 'I go try.' God abeg, no let shame catch me for this house.

For one year, I dey manage every kobo. For harmattan, I dey break ice wash clothes; for dry season, I dey weave mat and sew shoe. My hands full with old and new wounds. Sometimes, I go hear goat bleat for backyard, remind me say even animal dey manage.

E no dey easy, but if na stubbornness, I get am. Sometimes my finger dey bleed, but I go tie am with old wrapper, continue dey hustle. When rain dey beat me, I still dey waka go market to deliver mat. Some days, I go look my palm, e be like say I dey carry another person hand.

When the clay jar nearly full finish, my aunty come talk say dem make mistake—the engagement no be with Okoli family, but na with Oko family.

Na so my ear just dey ring. My heart pound like drum for village festival. I glance at my aunty, dey search her face for hope. My aunty come house with church elder, her face dey full of apology but my own tears nearly fall. Even the old women for compound dey whisper, 'Which kind wahala be this one?'

When the Oko people carry their bridal keke come carry me, Okoli Yanli no show face, and na only the servant, Chijioke, dey look worried:

The keke just dey park for outside, with small children dey follow am look. Even the Oko mama wear wrapper wey don wash sotay e dey shine. Chijioke eye red small, like say him fit cry. E wipe face with back of hand, voice low like person wey lose goat.

"That Oko family poor too much, madam. If you marry go there, I fear say dem no even get pot to cook food. Even the money for this bridal keke—half na from copying book for people, half na the students join hand contribute."

I fit see as e dey worry am true true. Chijioke scratch head, look ground, sigh.

The bridal keke get bell for every corner. Even though e old, e clean well—you go see say dem try well to prepare am. The keke seat still dey smell like fried akara from morning market. As I look am, my heart come light, I just purse my lips smile small.

The bell dey jingle softly, breeze dey blow. For my mind, I dey think say at least dem no do pass demself. Dem put small ribbon for side. Small children dey shout, 'Aunty Lilian, you go dance for us o!'

"No wahala. Me sef don save some money."

As I talk am, Chijioke open mouth. I tap my chest, squeeze the jar, try hide my shaking hand. Even if nobody go see my effort, I go still respect myself.

I hold that small, full clay jar, climb enter the bridal keke.

As I dey climb, my heart dey beat, but my spirit strong. Sun dey set, the bell still dey ring. I tell myself, 'No matter where you go, Lilian, make you dey carry your pride and small savings follow body.'

As the keke move, bell dey ring for my ear, like say e dey announce my own freedom.