They say a good story begins with: “And so this bitch...” But, I won’t call the gal in this story a bitch.

And so this gal, my acquaintance, called me out of the blues, sometime in March 2013, to tell me that she was getting married to her beau. As I wrote last week on Owambe Saturday, the groom-to-be is always “The One”, “My Own”, or something mushy like that. I was in a bad mood at the time she called. Heaven knows I tried to sound nice.

“Hey!” she screamed into my ear. I had to hold the phone away from my ear until she was done screaming like someone had stabbed her in the eye. Before I could reply, she said, “Guess who’s getting married!”

I was almost blurting, shut the Bleep up, bitch! But, Civility and Propriety held me back. “You,” I said dryly as I rolled my eyes across the Milky Way. She didn't even get from my tone that I wasn’t interested in this talk. A sensible person would have seen me roll my eyes through the phone. Bridezilla* was beyond elated to have sense.

“Yeeeesss!” she was annoyingly enthusiastic. “He proposed at last!” I understood her happiness. She and the dude had been dating since our first year in the university. He wasn’t a student. How did they meet? Facebook. After dating for five years, It was high time he put a ring on it.

“Congrats. When is the wedding?”

“We are doing it this year... last week of December,” she went on rambling about how he proposed as if it was going to make me richer. I came back to reality when she said, “You’ll be in my bridal train.”

She didn't ask me. She told me. I’d have said “No” but I was curious. I wanted to know what it was like to be in a bridal train. I acquiesced. She was very thankful. She told me she’d get across to me when the preparations started.

On August 1st, she called me. I grinned like someone gave me a birthday cake. She remembered my birthday. She’d forgotten it last year.

“Hey,” she gushed. “Hope you’ve not forgotten that you’re in my bridal train...” she went on and on to brief me about the preparations. At the time, I was serving* in Owerri, Imo State. The wedding was going to be in Lagos. That was no biggie since I was going to travel to Lagos for the Christmas break. The gal went on and on. She told me the gals in the bridal train were going to be in fuchsia. As soon as I heard "fuchsia", the colour formed in my head and I shuddered in revulsion. I hate the colour. "Hate" is a strong word. I detest, abhor, loathe, dislike fuchsia. It makes my eyes bleed! She asked me to send my measurement for the gown. I thought that was all until she told me I was going to pay for my gown. Ha! I was too dazed to say anything. She took my quiescence for acquiescence. She hung up without wishing me a happy birthday.

Nice. Just nice. I thought of the amount she asked me to pay. That was almost my one month’s NYSC* allowance. Anyway, I was curious. I needed to know what it felt like to be in a bridal train. Almost everyone I know has been in a bridal train. It’s like a rite of passage of some sorts.

The following week, I sent her the money with pain in my heart. She sent me a picture of the cloth material. I sent her my measurement. She called me often. She’d never called me this much in our years as acquaintances.

I travelled to Lagos for the Christmas break. Honestly, I was sceptical about this wedding. I didn’t want to go. I mean, the gown was ready. I could have changed my mind all those months but I didn't. This was my debut as a “bridal train girl in an Owambe”. I was going to take this chance and nothing would make me change my mind.

I started singing a sad song on the day before her wedding. I should have listened to that tiny voice in my head that told me that it wasn’t too late to “pull out” of the whole affair.

She said she wanted the bridal train to stay overnight at the hotel where the wedding reception was going to take place. This seemed fair enough. I couldn't have made it on time to Ajah all the way from Ikorodu that Saturday morning.

I got to the hotel at about 5 PM that day. I met the other gals and they all had an attitude problem; they were all carrying face.* I laughed hard in my mind. What did they think we were here for? Miss World? All that snobbery made me activate my inner snob. Gals! Always acting up to one another as if we are all fighting for one man job opportunity.

Bridezilla came in later in the evening to “thank us for being here for her sake”. She said that her fiance had rented two rooms for the bridal train. That meant four people in a room for two nights. She handed us our gowns. To Oya*, I wanted to cry. I knew I was never going to wear this gown again. I should have set fire to the money and watch it burn. That would have been more... satisfying for me.

Bridezilla is a narcissist. This wedding heightened her narcissistic proclivities. She thought she was Aphrodite, Cleopatra, and Elizabeth Taylor rolled up into one. In her perspective, she was the Queen Bee and we, the bridal train, were Kelly and Michelle the puny soldiers. She left after we did a little rehearsal in the hall.

On getting to the room, I wanted to scream to God, “Whhhyy?!!”

READ MORE ON: https://thefemmemedia..com.ng/2015/11/owambe-saturday-observer-of-bridal.html

OP I feel ya pain..
Too much unnecessary wahala..