Sarif smirks as he swipes through pictures on his phone, most of which are years old on his phone. The pictures he sees are the ones he took at the beach during last year’s Christmas. He smiles at his rumbled shirt that’s flailing against his chest when the picture is taken. He wishes for such moments again, especially the one he will be at the centre of some sort of celebration. Such celebration will make him the celebrity he’s in the picture: the finest boy on the beach with a cleanly shaved chin. He rolls over his bed towards the mirror and notices, as if for the first time, the overgrown beards at his jaws. He frowns. The next picture has him holding a girl by the waist, his crush at the time. Although she struggles to free herself from his grip, he still grabs her to himself. Those are the nostalgic photos of last year. He grins at what’s happening this year: Christmas plus his elder brother’s wedding. 

He tosses over his bed and grabs his photo, slides the icons to the gallery and opens the picture of the wedding flyer: Peter and Vivian. How intriguing, he thinks, somewhat surprisingly as well happily. Not that he’s against anything, but rather shocked that his elder brother will later settle for her. And this time, as if charmed, with deepest, uncontrollable love for her. No doubt, Vivian is beautiful, but not his spec at the time they discuss their girls’ type. For Sarif, his kind of girl is curvature with watermelon breasts, quite curvy at the waist to the hips, doesn’t bother about skin colour, and has a catwalk structure. Basically, outward qualities befuddle him. But his brother’s is inert, something unseen and stable. His type of girl must be spiritual, demure, selfless, servitude or humble to her husband, always loving and peaceful. However, before he meets Vivian, Peter tells Sarif that he now takes a premium interest in the physical too. That’s after he finished his ND 1 program. He prioritizes fair-skinned girls (yellow but not jaundiced), average and plum, however, she must be curvy as well, fashionable with the latest trend, and very very very very demure. Sarif laughs when his brother stresses the very. It seems his brother encounters some Christian folks that lack these, and it must have pissed him off. Peter is really hot-tempered. 

However, Sarif is surprised at how he ends up with Vivian because, by all comparison, she’s opposite to his physical criteria. She’s ebony-skinned, lanky, and not fashionable in the sense of fashion. That is, she doesn’t apply makeup or dress like every other girl does. Rather, decency. A cover-up dressing. She often wears a gown that flows like a waterfall from her shoulder to her toes. Sometimes, her sown lace or native dress doesn’t cling to her body, to factor out the shape she has. 

“Bro, are you very sure about what you are doing? This girl is not your spec o,” Sarif typed to his brother on WhatsApp the night he introduced her to his family. 

“Hundred per cent. I love her so much. She’s my type,” Peter replies with some emoji that has this love tag on them. Sarif suspects him to be charmed, probably by love. 

“Bro, what did she do to you that you love her that much?” 

“She’s been with me through thick and thin. I can’t love any other girl aside from her. She’s the one for me.” 

Sarif chuckles. It is as if it’s not his brother chatting. Ever since Sarif grows to know Peter, to becomes acquainted with his characters, he has never seen him chat this happily. Sarif feels his brother to be this boyish with his excitement, with his tale of love. Though Sarif has recently broken up with his girlfriend, he feels love around him, around his exhilarated brother. 

And so he longs for the wedding in December. A union that will be the more exciting: not only because it is coupled with the festive season, but because he’s determined to watch his brother, in that boyish excitement, declare love on the altar. Other things also contribute to this excitement of his: the fact his brother is breaking the jinx among his siblings and cousins by being the first to marry. None have taken a fianc(e)e to the altar. The ones that occurred, as marriage, are the ones factor by incidents: copulation then marriage. But none of them have wedded the other, legally or in holy matrimony. While thinking this, Sarif smiles sheepishly, with the same boyish excitement. The fact of him standing among the crowd that will gather as the brother to the groom is an achievement: being at the centre. He punches the sky and yells ‘Yes.’ He uses the moment to reminisce about the days he was either a page boy, flower boy, or one of the groom trains. 

Sarif allows the water from the shower to run continually on him. There is this satisfaction he gains from it. His first time standing under a waterfall, he confesses to loving the splash of water against his nape. It’s like a patting that reassures, that motivates one that one can do it. So at this point, he often sings to consulate the mood. But today, his mind is on the wedding, how will it be? What will be his part? As the junior brother, he knows his part will be huge, and when it’s time, he will be called upon. However, his mind is curious about what will happen. He sketches out how the canopy will be laid at the reception and outside the church, should in case it is overcrowded. Two to be at the entrance. One will be hitched at the walkway to the diesel lister. The other will be near the gate. 

He sketches the cake, though he knows this is not his duty. He however dreams of what it will look like – as if in a reverie. The cake will be seven steps, creamy with chocolate, and slop over it. The highest step will have a picture of Peter and Vivian, with a green icing that will scribble their names. Round the cake, will be designed with fairy tale figures: the wing fairies, shriek, donkey, Pinocchio, Cinderella, sleeping beauty, Prince Charming etc. But his brother is not a fan of fairies, and Sarif knows that. ‘But, who cares?’ 

He pictures how the event will be prepared in their house. By his return home on the 21st of December, the house will be filled with all kinds of goodies. But his attention turns to the drinks that will fill the fridge and the foodstuffs. He pictures how he will stealth at night, whenever everyone is asleep and filch a plastic bottle of either teems or malt. To steal the replaceable bottle will be detrimental to him. And what else? Oh yes, his mum’s cooking. Sarif swallows a lump of saliva and grimaces. In every way, he misses his mum’s cooking. The school has made him love junk because that’s what he cooks. It is either the salt or the seasoning is over or under due measure or the water is above the required scale. There’s a day he cooks jollof rice and he doesn’t know whether it’s jollof rice or pink rice: he uses Pepper and Onion seasoning, and the end product is a merged coalition, sparkling pink. He laughs at this. At least, he has his consolation: school is ending in a week. He remember what his mom cooked for last year’s Christmas: fried rice, pepper-stewed chicken, salad, goat-peppered stew… ‘Oh stop it!’ 

But he still smiled that he was going back home soon. At least, he will feed on his mom’s meal before the wedding takes place. The last time he travelled home, his mom stirred amala with vegetables. His chunk of meat is the biggest – the uncut cow’s tongue. He won’t expect less of it now, most especially now that his elder brother, the strictest of his elder siblings, is getting married. Though he’s still shocked that his brother can actually fall in love. Like, how is it possible for a workaholic guy like Peter to fall in love? He asks while combing his kinky hair. The answer will be to look at his eyes and hear from him, directly. As the Yoruba maxim goes, the eyes sit the words. His thoughts switch to his childhood days with his brother, and how his brother would discipline him when he sees him talking with a girl. At worst, if Sarif hugs a girl. His brother is someone that you can describe as a Puritan. Highly strict when it comes to moral matters. Sarif believes it’s hereditary because his father is more stern than anyone in the extended family (though their father is the firstborn). 

Sarif settles in his heart not to be surprised if his brother decides to have a low wedding or if the bride wears a church gown instead of a wedding gown. Not that it’s not possible, but for someone like his bro, this is not impossible at all. Rather, it depends if he wants it that way or not. Peter always emphasizes marriage and not a wedding. His interest is in what happens after, the aftermath of the wedding. People are bear at the wedding, but nobody will bear the marriage except the couple. So he downgrades the funfair. He passionately hopes his brother will put up some surprise, at least to make it quite comical. Though Sarif is already sure to have one comic act: the makeup of the bride. Will she only apply Vaseline on her face or will she do some touch-up? Sarif has never seen her in makeup, and he’s sure, Peter hasn’t too. What will she look like in her touch-up? What if the makeup artist is inexperienced in bringing a perfect skin tone blending? He’s in for a comedy noon. 

As he chuckles at the thought, he picks up his diary and fiddles with his pen. The last write-up is on his latest breakup, and he ends it by swearing not to ever fall in love again, no matter what. That was three months ago. Academic activities filch time from him, denying him the luxury of writing. He gazes at the diary, wondering what to write or how to write it. Perhaps he should detail what he has been thinking. His brother’s sudden changed character from being strictly matured, to a boyish excitement. 

October 16, 2024 

    Dear Diary 

I apologize for being absent from you. I was also absent from myself, choking on what I didn’t wish. If someone had warned me earlier, I wouldn’t have opted to study mass communication. I would have chosen English & Literature, or Philosophy. These are perfect, unstressed courses. But now, I must bear the burden to the end. So please forgive me. 

Today I return with some exciting, also surprising, news. My brother is getting married, and quite shockingly, to someone not his spec. I wish he had taught me how powerful love is. Maybe he will, I am sure he will, with his evergreen excitement. But no diary, I am not hoping to stroll back into it again but to understand why he’s so excited about it. Maybe there’s something beneath the camouflage. That’s what I wish to know. 

Anyway, my desire lies in what I will gain. I was thinking about the menu of cuisines that my mom would cook before my mind smacked me. Oh God, I’m fucking hungry (sobs). I can’t wait to knife her pounded yam with my fingers and soil its head with egusi soup, packing diffracted pomo with it. Or her bean cake that’s perfect harmony with pap (licks lip)…

His phone beeps. He remembers that his data is on. He double-taps his phone’s screen and a WhatsApp icon shows on the locked screen. He opens the lock and heads straight to WhatsApp message. It’s a voice note from his elder brother. He chuckles. The voice note is 3 minutes long. He wonders what can make his elder brother’s record as it is unusual. He plays the record. 

My lil bro, how are you doing? How’s school going and exams? Don’t forget that immediately after your exams, you should come back home to help Daddy buy crates of soft bottled drinks. You know he’s paraplegic. Also, don’t forget to bring your suit with you…. 

Sarif waits till the night before replying with a voice note that he’s as eager as anything to come back home. The wedding stuff; the Christmas celebration that comes with carnival and bonfire; his mom’s culinary… he can’t afford to miss it. He begins to circle each day with anxiety. The following week, he takes his suit to the laundry shop. He buys a new shoe by Louis Vuitton from the money his brother sent him. On the last day of his return home, he barbs his kinky hair to a skinned two-step, the perfect coiffure. He cuts his overgrown moustache, and also trim the ones on his jaws. A new perfect look. He loves the way he looks suddenly handsome as if a carver just chiselled him afresh. The day he returns home, which makes it five days before the wedding, he meets an already prepared ceremony. Aside from helping to move crates and other goods from one place to another, there’s little need for him. That night, his mom cooked his favourite: pounded yam and egusi, with some chicken. He gobbles the meal like a predator on prey. However, his mind rests on the wedding, the surprises and the shocks he hopes to see. To others, it might actually shock them, but to him, it’s no longer nonplussed. 

Biography:

Olayioye Paul Bamidele is a Nigerian writer, a journalist, and a photographer. His works have appeared or forthcoming in Spillword, Lunaris, Artlounge, Afreecan, Ice Floe, Afreecan, Kalahari, LILAC, SprinNG, Readers Boon, Feral, Black Moon, Eboquills, IHRAF, Synchronize Chaos Mag, Kissing Dynamite, Kalahari, Kreative Diadem and elsewhere You can message him on WhatsApp at +2348162573107 and on LinkedIn and Facebook at Paul Bamidele