Like oil used to fry eggs!

...Omonoba...
Our people say:
Yoruba: Kànìké tìtorí oókan kùngbe.
Eng: Kànìké set fire to the forest on account of a single cowry shell. - Yoruba Proverb.
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There is not a day when I am not writing or thinking about what I would like to write. Touching the ever real issue of inter-tribal marriage(s), I have decided to share an excerpt from an on-going work of mine. Here is a rant from a Yoruba woman whose daughter has decided to bring home an Igbo man...Ha, I have stories to tell sha!

When my daughter told me that she was getting married to an Igbo man, I scolded her for making jokes with weighty issues such as inter-tribal marriage and when she persisted, I told her that I would not believe her until I saw them in my compound. As if she dared my sarcasm and the anger laced intricately into it, she did ask him, Obioma and his relatives to bring palm wine to my house asking for her hand in marriage. But where was it heard of before that the Yoruba men were insufficient or the eyes of a well-trained Yoruba girl would see an Igbo man and behold beauty within him? Or assuming she did behold beauty within him to perhaps admire the creation of God, would her eyes deceive her unto admiration and then love? Love ko, love ni? Anyway, after I spat beside my husband’s grave in disbelief and disgust, I was almost sure that his body turned in agreement with me. I tried to be polite to the Igbo suitors though I must confess that pushing my daughter, Laide through my tight pelvis during labour and mourning my husband after his sudden death were much easier for me to do.

“Did Laide say that she will marry your son?”, I asked the oldest of the men.

“Yes ma. Our son beheld a beautiful flower in your garden and informed us that he would like to pluck it.” 

“You have not answered my question. Did my daughter say to you that she would like to marry your son?” 

As I spoke, I fought the cuticles beneath my fingernails like they were the ones I had anger for. I glanced at the boy, Obioma. I saw him looking at my daughter from across the living room, the side where the Igbo suitors sat. He was smiling, almost blushing and they were exchanging facial expressions as if to mock me that I didn't understand their secret language.

“Yes, your daughter and our son have both consented to marriage and that is why we have come here with palm wine to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage. We thought we would meet some men from the family here today.” 

I laughed within myself even though my wrinkles were finely spread out across my face in the most deceitful grin.

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Conflicts based solely on culture differences forever remain SHALLOW to me. Shallow, like oil used to fry eggs!

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