They stared at me, the looks on their faces were eager, expectant, hopeful. I stared back at them too. On my face, however, you could see shock, anger—and above all else—betrayal. I felt like they (alongside karma) have conspired to betray me. It took all I had in me not to jump on him and tear him into shreds.
"Dad, are you not going to say anything?"
"I ... I ... well..." I stuttered. My brain must have found the whole episode utterly strange that we both couldn't find words to describe how I felt.
Then he spoke up. And I had to pin my hands to my sides to stop myself from lunging at his neck and snapping it into two. He wore a jubilant smile, like someone who had won a ticket to heaven. I knew that his smile might have been genuine and without any form of mockery; but as I looked at him, I couldn't help but think that he reminded me of clowns. You know those men with painted faces who wore plastic smiles that were very creepy? Exactly. I felt like he was mocking me all the time his perfect dentition flashed at me.
My daughter, on the other hand, was all over him. She would look at me, and then stare at him with eyes full of wonder and adoring love. It made me sick. She had tucked her right hand inside his left hand; it felt like a beautiful rose that was put inside a brown, dirty box.
"I really love your daughter, Sammy," he said, "with your permission, I would like to marry her."
And he just had to call me that name. This man had no shame. If he did, then he would know that for him to address me as 'Sammy' meant thy he shouldn't have been here, holding the hand of my only child, and spewing out rubbish like a refuse pit that has rejected its contents. I don't know if he thought that by calling me that name, it would endear him to me, but it only intensified the gross feeling of betrayal I felt.
Chidiebere, my daughter looked at me again. Perhaps she has started to understand why I found it hard to say anything. It was all too shocking, all too annoying. But I had to say something. So...
"I'm sorry, Ebere, but I can't give you my consent. I can't watch you marry someone who is twenty-eight years older than you," I finally stated.
Immediately, I saw the light in her eyes dim. Tiny crystals of tears formed in her pearly eyes, and I knew how much I was hurting her. But I also knew that I had to deliver that particular hurt. It was like a bone-setting procedure: it would hurt during the whole process, but later, you would be grateful for the pain that made your bones to be well again.
Without as much as a word of goodbye, she stood up and left, with the man in tow. Two days later, I saw on her Facebook timeline that she had gotten a court marriage. It made me wonder if she already knew that I would not give my consent to their union; and so she probably had made arrangements for a court marriage.
She was really like her mother—God bless her soul. Her doggedness and resilience were just the same as that of the woman who had been my everything. It took me down the dark, lonely and oftentimes heartbreaking road called memory.

**********
Back in school, Nnedi had been my best friend. She was one of those girls that were full of life, full of love, that it made them popular and larger than life. She knew almost everybody and almost everybody knew her. She was the daughter of a state commissioner then, but she never dwelt on that. If you see the way she would sit down with us in our lodge then and drag the bowl of garri we were drinking, you would wonder if she didn't get the taste of the wealth her father had. But that was how she was. Simple, kind, full of warmth and mischief. And utterly beautiful.

Read more ➡
https://www.thezenpens.com/2019/12/16/my-daughters-husband/

Lovely

moorevic:
Lovely

Thank you.