Chapter 3: THE RULES UNSPOKEN

The engagement party was held in the compound. It wasn’t my idea, and truthfully, not even his. His mother announced it as if it were already written somewhere in the skies above our heads. She did not ask me if I wanted it at my parents’ house or at one of the gardens in town. She simply said...

" We will gather here. Let people know who my son has chosen. "

And that was that.

By afternoon, the compound had transformed into something louder than itself. Bright canopies stretched across the courtyard, like sheets of sky pinned down with iron poles. Women moved in clusters, balancing trays of jollof rice, fried plantain, steaming egusi soup. Children ran about with balloons shaped like hearts, their small feet kicking up dust that settled back like it was used to this chaos.

Music floated from speakers dragged into the yard, old highlife beats braided with Afropop, the kind that made elders nod, and younger cousins sway their hips. I wore the gown my mother had sewn, a soft peach lace that hugged me gently without asking me to shout. Gold earrings dangled like shy witnesses. My hair was threaded into neat cornrows, beaded at the ends, so that every step was accompanied by a soft click.

I should have felt beautiful. I should have felt wanted. Instead, as I stood by Emeka’s side, greeting uncles, aunties, and neighbors, I felt like an exhibit. People looked at me as though I were a painting whose meaning they had not yet agreed upon.

" She is tall", one woman said, lips pursed as if height were a sin.

" At least she is not too slim", another replied, her eyes scanning me as though weighing my ability to bear children.

The words floated just loud enough for me to hear. Emeka squeezed my hand when he noticed my smile faltering, but he said nothing. That squeeze, I would learn, was his way of saying endure.

The first test came during introductions. Mama,his mother, stood tall in her wrapper of green and gold, gele folded into a crown sharp enough to command silence. Her voice carried without effort.

" This is the one, she said, her hand resting on Emeka’s shoulder, but her eyes on me. The one God has chosen.

The crowd clapped, some shouting Ngozi! God has done it! Others chorused Chukwu dalu! in Nigeria igbo language, which meant thank God.

Mama then pulled me forward and added, her smile stretched too wide—

"And she will learn. Yes, she will learn how things are done in this family".

The words dropped into the air like pebbles into water, rippling toward me, and then settling heavy in my chest. I smiled, lips trembling, though every part of me wanted to ask, learn what? But I swallowed the question with a gulp of zobo served in a plastic cup.

The second test arrived with food. In Igbo tradition, the bride-to-be is often asked to serve her future husband before the guests. A sign of respect, they said. A small duty that showed humility. I was prepared for that. But Mama twisted it.

She clapped her hands once, sharp, and called out " Amaka, come here. Show us you know how to serve a man. Not just your man. A family is wide. You will serve them all".

The crowd roared with laughter. My ears burned. I carried plates from the kitchen to the seated men, Emeka’s uncles, cousins, elders. Each time I bent slightly to set a plate, I felt the eyes of the women pierce my back, measuring if I bent low enough, if my smile was sweet enough. Sweat rolled down my spine, but I dared not wipe it.

When I finally sat, Emeka whispered

"You did well.

But my hands trembled as I lifted my fork.

The third test was quieter. As the party wound down, relatives began to shower me with advice disguised as blessings.

"Always wake before your husband. Even before his mother. A good wife does not sleep too much.

Never argue with him, even when he is wrong. Silence is a woman’s wisdom.

Remember, his mother carried him in her womb. Respect that forever."

Each phrase fell into me like small stones, piling in a basket I would be forced to carry.

Later that evening, after the last guest had left and the compound smelled of spilled beer and fried oil, Mama called me aside. Her wrapper was loosened at the waist, but her voice remained sharp.

"You did well today, she said. You smiled even when you did not want to. That is the first rule."

I looked at her, waiting for more.

"A woman’s endurance is her crown, she continued. If you want this marriage to last, you must understand that your place is here. Under this roof. And under my rules."

The words tightened something around my throat. I nodded, though every bone in me wanted to ask what about my own rules? My own roof? But again, I swallowed the question.

That night, lying in Emeka’s room, I watched him snore softly, his chest rising like a tide that knew no storm. The compound was silent, except for the occasional cough of a night guard outside. I traced the ring on my finger, its gold dull in the dim light.

I thought of my mother, who had once told me during my teenage years that marriage is not just about love but about the soil it is planted in. If the soil is too harsh, the flower struggles, she had said. I wondered now what kind of soil I had been planted in, and if love would be enough water.

Sleep refused me. I stared at the ceiling and listened to the night, my mind replaying Mama’s words, under her roof, under her rules. The sentence pressed against me like a prophecy, and though I tried to push it away, I knew deep down that it had already begun to shape my life.