Chief Synner

My Marriage Proposal Story

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My Marriage Proposal Story

My first marriage proposal came when I was twelve. I remember it vividly, the way I remember various infinitesimal events in my life. He was the buns seller outside my school gate.

Little Syn: Oga buns, give me thirty naira buns, fi si am o!

Buns seller: Ah ah! Fi si no dey thirty naira own.

L.S: I no buy again, gimme my money.

B. S: Fine girl, buy from me nah, If you go marry me now, I go give you fi si. Oya marry me.

I was tempted. Long throat can do that to a person. I looked at his features to see if we fit.

Bathroom slippers- check.

Dark cracks on heels- check.

Brown teeth and unkempt hair- check.

Smelling armpit and week old ‘polo’- check.

Dark Ghana skin that had not seen cream in months- check.

I took an inventory of myself.

Non-existent frontal Agege buns- check.

Non-existent rear Agege buns- check.

Big nose, big eyes, big lips and no hair(low cut things)- check

Dirty pinafore and dirty socks- check.

It was a match made in Ojuelegba but I declined. (bring out a handkerchief to wipe tears on my behalf. Perhaps, he was Dangote’s son in disguise. Who knows?)


This could be us but God knows best . . .


The second proposal came a year after. Thirteen. It was the conductor who refused to give me my change.

Little Syn: Oga, give me my change. I want to alight here. ( Fat lie, It was probably ‘Ogbeni, shenji mi da! ‘Locality’ has been in my blood since tikpe tikpe! )

Conductor: I no get change. Leave am for me nah. You know say if I keep you for house, you no go ask for change. Shey you go marry me?

There is no ring on my finger so we all know how that went.

Another came, at seventeen. It was the chemist on my street. That was after the ice cream seller when I was sixteen. By then, I had decided to bind any spirit of black cloth in my life. I got some padded bras, pouted my lips (Thank God for Angelina Jolie, she made big lips the rave at that moment). Armed with padded bras ten sizes too big and Vaseline to glisten my lips, I stormed into the chemist, puckering my lips like Jolie.

Chemist: Baby, wetin you want?

Medium Syn: I wan take tetanus shot.

Chemist: Na for yansh o.

M.S: Ah ah… no be for hand?

C: No o! na for yansh. Anyway, baby, I just move come this area. I dey find wife. You go marry me?

M.S: Oga, abeg give me the injection.

I turned, giving him a view of my ass. I glanced at his face when he made no move to pull the skirt down after several seconds. I saw disappointment on his face at my non-existence rear Agege. I had forgotten to pad my buttocks as well. Darn!

Chemist: Bring your hand.

Then, there was at nineteen and twenty but those are too serious to have any relation to this post.

Why this epistle? Where-in lies the lesson? Two words.
People grow.
People change.
People evolve.

There was a time in my life I was fixated on trivial things: how people saw me, how people felt about my features and other related things like flattery and inconsequential nothings. I have grown way past that. I love compliments (who doesn’t?) and I think they should be paid often and truthfully, (this is different from grandiose flattery) but it has ceased to be a focal point in my life. I am too busy building my physical and spiritual empires to care if you find me pleasing or not. I try to escape make-up whenever I can (unless Michael Ealy and John Legend signify interests sha , then we will enter market and buy iphone for its camera and start using one of these expensive make-up kits). I look presentable for myself because it makes ME feel good.

I have grown from that girl concerned with frivolities to a lady with priorities. I have changed from the maniac who thought I was never enough; that I wasn’t fat, tall or beautiful enough. I have evolved to a confident woman who doesn’t need a marriage proposal to have a sense of self worth. When it comes, it will not be as a result of desperation or inadequacy for anyone else. This is how it was meant to be. I was meant to be ME.

I was born a finished product.

C’est fini.



Image credit: The internet

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