Chapter 1: The Palm Wine Revelation

On the day of my engagement, my closest brother, Ifedike, land waka enter hall from airport, and without warning, flung a cup of palm wine right in my face.

Palm wine dey drip for my eyebrow, dey burn small like say pepper join. The palm wine splashed down my shirt and dripped into my eyes, hot and sticky, as the crowd gasped. My heart jumped—everybody for the hall freeze, the traditional drummers pausing mid-beat. My uncles and aunties stared, mouths hanging open. Even the caterer by the buffet dropped a spoon. In my mind, na confusion everywhere; for Naija, to throw palm wine for person face during engagement na big abomination, na sign of heavy wahala. I fit smell the palm wine—fresh from sap, thick with that sweet village tang—running down my nose.

Jollof rice scent still dey hang for air, suya pepper dey bite my nose.

He shouted, "Your wife give everything for you! Now she dey near death, and you dey here dey climb rich family ladder!"

His voice cut through the air, raw with anger. His words stung like pepper inside wound. All eyes turned to me, judging, whispering under breath: "See as e happen? Na so men dey do?" Even the small children playing under the table stopped and stared wide-eyed. My head bowed in shame, the weight of his accusation pressing on my chest. For this kin family gathering, shouting like this na serious matter, dem fit call family elders or even drag am go community head.

He pulled out his phone and showed me WhatsApp video footage:

He thrust his battered phone close to my eyes, screen cracked but bright. People gather round, squeezing in, the old women at the back peering over shoulders, trying to see gist. Data no too dey flow for village, but Ifedike don manage download everything. The tension be like waiting for NEPA light in the night.

My wife, Chiamaka, wearing a white lace gown, stood on top of a coffin. Under the coffin, fire dey burn. She held our wedding photo tight, no fear for the flames, just dey cry like say her world don end: "Ten years don pass, but you no show. I promise say I go marry you—alive, I be your person; if I die, I go be your spirit. I love you, no shaking, till I die."

Her white lace gown be the proper type wey tailor dey sew for festive occasion—fine embroidery, small stones glittering for sleeve, all that her family fit afford. I recognize the wrapper tied around her waist, same one her mother dey use for big events. The fire under the coffin dey burn real, no be play—red and orange, licking the wood. The villagers in the background shout, some try hold back tears, some dey shake head, some just dey look her with pity. Chiamaka voice crack as she cry, that kind cry wey dey come from deep inside chest—heartbreak wey reach bone. She clutch the photo like life depend on am.

As I watched the live video, my whole body begin shake, tears just dey fall anyhow from my eyes.

My hands dey tremble, tears mix with palm wine for my face. Na so my body dey cold, sweat dey run me for back. The way I dey shake, even Ifedike notice, put hand for my shoulder—brother to brother. Na only the elders for corner dey sigh, muttering, "Chai, this life na wah!" For that moment, I no see anybody for the hall again—na only Chiamaka dey my mind.

Some aunties don cover face, dey mutter, "God forbid bad thing."

I asked, confused, "She no die before?"

My voice break as I talk. I no fit even look Ifedike eye. Around me, the noise of the hall fade; na only my question dey ring for air. Even the DJ for corner stop to select song, waiting for answer.

Ifedike shouted, "Die? She wait for your promise for ten lonely years! Every kobo wey she make, she send am give you. Now, she don use all her money finish, and na only enough for me to buy ticket come find you!"

He step close, voice shaking, his face red with vex. Aunty Mojisola from Lagos shake head, whisper for Yoruba, "O ti buru—see as boy dey disgrace family." The elders in the hall begin murmur. For Naija, to abandon person wey carry you for back, dey send money, na heavy sin. I feel shame enter ground.

My heart dey beat like drum as I touch her face on the screen—the same face wey I don dey miss all these years.

My finger press the screen soft, as if I fit touch her face, wipe her tears. For that moment, my breath hang. My chest tight, my legs weak. The faces around me dey blur, na only Chiamaka clear for my eye. I remember how she dey laugh that year, how her dimple dey show. Now, only pain dey her face.

But Ifedike bring out one old gold ring, throw am for my face. "She no fit face you. She say make I return this ring to you."

Ifedike hand dey shake as he throw the ring, vein dey pop for him neck.

The ring land with small clang for the tiled floor. Guests gasp again, some people dey whisper, "Na which kind matter be this?" Na tradition for our side say to return engagement ring na end of relationship, but Ifedike eyes red with anger, almost like say if not for family shame, he for slap me join. He stand over me, daring me to pick the ring.

I catch the ring.

As I pick am, the cold metal bite my palm. The fake gold don tarnish finish—green color for inside, only memory of gold remain. I squeeze am, my mind travel back to those hungry years, the promise wey I give under moonlight.

Ten years ago, she carry heavy debt because of me. That day before I travel, I put fake gold ring for her finger, promise her for life.

I remember that night clear—mosquito dey bite, but we no send. The generator for compound dey hum. I go buy ring from roadside aboki, use last money. She look me with those soft eyes, say, "No matter say na fake, e still be from your heart." Neighbours gossip say na juju, but we no care. As I put ring for her finger, her hand dey shake, but she smile like say na world I give her.

I tell her, "Give me at most ten years. I go come back marry you with real gold and silver."

I squeeze her hand, swear on my father's name, as is tradition. She nod, her eyes bright with hope. I no know say life go turn this kain way. The elders that day talk, "May God guide your journey," but nobody fit see tomorrow. My words dey echo for my head now like distant thunder.

The fake ring don wash finish, but she still dey keep am.

No matter say the ring don change color, become dull, she wear am everyday—her own token of hope. People for village dey laugh her, some call am mumu woman, but she no mind. For her heart, na my promise dey keep her going. Sometimes, she go show the ring to her younger ones, tell them, "My husband go come back." Na so she hold my memory like gold.

I turn face my fiancée, voice low, "I wan go back. I love her. Every year, every day, na she I dey think of..."

My voice no pass whisper, but the silence loud. Even Morayo, my fiancée, stiffen. Her painted nails dig into my hand, her face stony, mouth pressed thin. The hall begin buzz; some people dey record with phone. Na high society wedding, everything suppose be perfect, but this matter don cast.

My fiancée, Morayo, hold my hand, her face cold like ice. "Call my pilot, tell am make jet ready sharp sharp."

Her voice strong, her power clear. Everybody dey respect her—daughter of one of the biggest men for city. As she talk, her security people move quick, dey call pilots, dey arrange movement. People look her with awe—say na woman like this dey control men, she no dey play. Some aunties dey whisper, "Na true Lagos big woman be this o."

All the guests bow, answer together, "Yes, Chairlady."

The response be like one kind cult meeting. Everybody dey fear Morayo. Her authority na something else, e dey show for her carriage, the way she command people. Even elders bow head small. Dem dey respect money and power, but some still dey side-eye me for my own wahala.

Morayo, her power strong reach, she fit even influence who go win presidential election.

Her family dey high for political ladder. People dey fear her papa. Some people talk say she get senators, even pastors for her pocket. If she say na so, na so e go be. Her own no be joke—her connections dey make even police DPOs tremble. For Lagos, if Morayo call your name, your matter fit end for court or even abroad.

And my wife? Na just simple girl from Umuola village, dey wait for me to come back.

Chiamaka no get anybody. Her papa na retired headmaster, her mama dey sell akara for market. She dey live for family compound, her life humble, but her heart big. For that village, everybody sabi her story; even children dey sing am for play. "Chiamaka wey dey wait for her husband!" People dey respect her patience, but some use her as warning for their daughters. She no get power, no get money, only love.