Chapter 6: Matchmakers and Mothers

As I got closer to coming-of-age, marriage talk started.

The house was always full of voices—matchmakers with their trays of kola and bitter leaf, aunties peeking behind curtains, the smell of stew bubbling in the background, my grandmother’s loud laugh echoing in the hall. My teacher’s praise for my learning and wisdom became my bargaining chip to get the best husband possible.

People would come and admire the neatness of my stitches, the way I bowed my head respectfully. Matchmakers started coming to our house, even sons of titled families sent inquiries.

They brought gifts—yam, cloth, sometimes a fat goat. For the first time, my father was so happy he could hardly close his mouth.

He started buying new agbadas, strutting around as if he had discovered a hidden pot of gold. He would slap my back and shout, "Na your mother side get sense, no be me!" After marrying my mother, this old army man could now have such a talented daughter!

He told all who cared to listen that he had married well, that my mother’s blood was like river water—flowing with wisdom and quiet strength. Even though my maternal grandfather’s government post wasn’t high, their family had been scholars for generations.

People said their library had more books than the district judge. My mother was well-read, with a special kind of bearing.

She walked with the confidence of someone who had read the world, but her eyes always seemed to look beyond the compound walls.