~ EIGHTY ~

~ EIGHTY ~
The afternoon sun poured into the Okonkwo residence in Lekki, gilding the high walls and accentuating the quiet luxury of the living room. The house was modern, with warm wood floors, creamy walls, and glass windows that let in streams of natural light. It smelled faintly of cedar and vanilla—the signature scent Dare’s mum always insisted made a house feel like home.

But today, home didn’t feel peaceful.

Not with Ada pacing back and forth in the center of the sitting room, her phone clutched in one hand and her voice teetering dangerously close to a meltdown.

“How do you mean the fabric hasn’t arrived? Chioma, it was dispatched five days ago. Five! What do you mean ‘there’s a delay at the port’?—No, no, I don’t want excuses—” She paused mid-step, shutting her eyes tightly as she listened, her hand pressed to her forehead.

Dare leaned against the staircase railing, arms crossed over his chest, silently observing her. His grey joggers hung loose on his frame, paired with a black T-shirt and slippers. He hadn't said a word in the past ten minutes. Not when she’d nearly dropped her phone, or when she flung her wedding file on the couch in frustration. He knew better.

Chioma, her event planner, must have finally said something calming, because Ada groaned, muttered a quick, “Just get it fixed, please,” and ended the call with a sigh.

Silence.

She let the phone drop on the sofa beside the open folder and looked up, visibly flustered. “Dare, everything is falling apart. The fabric for the asoebi hasn’t arrived, the cake vendor just called to say the woman doing the sugar flowers had an emergency, and—wait—did you see the layout she sent? The chairs are not supposed to face the stage that way. The symmetry is off. Ugh!”

Dare moved then. Slowly, deliberately. He crossed the room and walked to where she stood, her chest heaving slightly, eyes glossy with the threat of tears.

“Adaora,” he said quietly.

She looked at him, tense, waiting for him to either agree or panic with her. Instead, he reached out, took her hand, and gently pulled her to the couch. She followed, reluctantly.

“Sit.”

She obeyed with a grumble. “I just wanted it to be perfect, Dare. I don’t want anything to go wrong. It’s our wedding. I’ve dreamed of it since—”

“I know.” He sat beside her, hand still holding hers. “You’ve dreamed of it since you were fourteen. You told me. It involved a white horse and that ridiculous glittery tiara you bought from Balogun market.”

She laughed, but it came out cracked. “It cost me 2,500 naira and I wore it every day for a week.”

“Exactly.” He smiled. “And not once did you panic about the horse not showing up or the tiara falling apart.”

She exhaled. “That was then. This is real. This is everything. I don’t want people to come and see chaos. I don’t want to disappoint anyone. Not my mum, not your mum, not Kaima—”

He cut in, gently. “Stop.”

She blinked at him.

“Not everything will go according to plan, Ada. It never does. But the most important things—the real things—those are intact. The fabric will come. Chioma is amazing. Even if your sugar flower woman ran off to Tahiti, someone else will step in. And at the end of the day, the only thing I really need is you. You in whatever dress you choose, standing there in front of me, saying yes.”

Ada sniffled, finally letting her shoulders fall. She stared at their interlocked fingers, then at him. “How are you always so calm?”

He shrugged. “Because you’re always overthinking. Someone has to be the chill one.”

She chuckled. “This wasn’t how I imagined today going.”

“Well, I imagined today would end with me ordering jollof rice from that place you love and forcing you to watch Friends with me while you pretend not to enjoy it.”

She leaned into him. “That sounds better than calling Chioma again.”

Dare kissed the side of her head. “Let’s do it then. Call a truce with your to-do list. At least for tonight.”

“Fine.” She rolled her eyes. “But tomorrow, we tackle the florist issue.”

“Deal,” he grinned, reaching for the remote.

Ada rested her head on his shoulder, her body relaxing for the first time all day. Despite everything, she felt safe here. She felt steady. And even if the wedding day came with a few imperfections, one thing was certain—she’d chosen the right person to face all of it with.

\----

The Ifedi compound was alive with motion.

From the low whirr of the generator at the back of the house to the rhythmic clangs of pots in the kitchen, the air pulsed with preparation. It was barely noon, but the Enugu sun had risen high enough to cast a warm glaze over the sprawling bungalow and its surrounding grounds. A mild haze of heat shimmered across the cemented courtyard, carrying with it the scent of smoked fish and roasted peppers wafting from the backyard kitchen where women were working in rhythmic coordination.

Inside the house, Mama Ifedi’s voice rang out from the sitting room.

“Tochukwu! Biko, take these drinks to the back and tell Ngozi to arrange them in the freezer. And no, don’t take the Fanta. That one is for the bride’s table!”

“Yes, Mama!” Tochukwu called out, sprinting across the hallway with a cartoonish bounce, a carton of assorted soft drinks stacked almost higher than his head.

Papa Ifedi sat just outside on the wide front porch, his reading glasses perched low on his nose as he reviewed a handwritten checklist. His face was serious, furrowed in concentration, but the upward curve of his mouth betrayed his pride. “Hmm. So many names. These children want to feed the whole town.”

Beside him, Ifenna leaned against one of the porch columns, tall and broad-shouldered in a sleeveless black shirt and joggers, casually sipping a bottle of water as he glanced at his phone.

“I told Ada she didn’t need to invite the entire medical class,” Ifenna murmured, chuckling. “But she said it wouldn’t feel right leaving anyone out.”

Papa Ifedi glanced at him over his glasses. “That girl’s heart is too big. And you, my son, did you call that sound man?”

“Yes, Papa. He’s arriving tomorrow morning with the speakers and microphones. He’ll set up before the engagement starts.”

The older man gave a satisfied nod. “Good. We need the volume to be high enough for even the neighbors who won’t come but will still listen from their windows.”

Ifenna laughed. “Exactly what Ada said.”

Across the yard, two hired men hoisted long iron poles, working to secure the white-and-gold canopies in place. The largest of the tents was already halfway erected, its pleated edges fluttering slightly in the breeze. Beneath it, a few plastic chairs had been arranged in neat rows. The sound of a hammer striking wood echoed from one corner where a stage platform was being built—an elevated place where tradition would meet elegance on the day of Adaora’s wine-carrying.

From the backyard came the low hum of women’s voices—neighbors, relatives, and caterers—stirring pots, peeling yams, and chopping vegetables. Laughter drifted up with the steam of jollof rice and stew, mingling with the occasional burst of highlife music playing from a nearby speaker. The kitchen compound smelled of spice, smoke, and home.

Mama Ifedi stepped outside, wiping her hands on her wrapper, sweat dotting her brow. She scanned the activity with an experienced eye.

“Where’s Kaima?” she asked.

“In her room,” Ifenna replied. “She’s probably helping with the guest list or calling vendors.”

Mama shook her head. “That girl. Since she returned from school, she hasn’t stopped working. Always writing, always planning. I pray she remembers to rest.”

“She will,” Ifenna assured her, his tone light. “You know Kaima—she wants everything to go smoothly for Ada.”

“And she will,” Mama said with finality. “By God’s grace.”

Tochukwu came bounding back to the front, breathless. “Mama! Ngozi said the freezer is already full. She said there’s no space for the new drinks!”

Mama threw her hands in the air. “Ewo! These people will not kill me. What kind of freezer is full before the ceremony?”

Papa Ifedi chuckled under his breath and turned a page on his list. “We should have rented a deep freezer, but someone said it wasn’t necessary.”

“I will rent one now,” Ifenna offered, already typing on his phone. “Don’t worry, Mama. It will arrive before evening.”

“God bless you, nwa m,” she said, squeezing his shoulder.

Suddenly, a honk echoed through the gate, followed by the sharp screech of tires. The gate swung open as a delivery van rolled in slowly, the driver jumping out with a clipboard in hand. “Delivery for Ifedi family—baskets of fruit and some kegs of palm wine from Abor.”

Ifenna stepped forward. “Right on time.”

Behind the van, two young men hopped down from the back and began unloading baskets of oranges, bananas, pineapples, and neatly sealed kegs that glistened with beads of cold sweat.

Tochukwu ran over to peek. “Wow! Ada will like this one!”

Mama Ifedi clapped her hands in delight. “Ah, this one is good. The palm wine is fresh. Let them put it in the store by the side, please. Tell Ngozi to go and label the fruits.”

Papa Ifedi looked up from his list and said with quiet pride, “This family knows how to prepare.”

There was laughter, there was sweat, there were rising voices and endless movement. And in the middle of it all, a sense of joy hung in the air—something sacred and alive, pulsing like a heartbeat through the old Ifedi compound.

The wedding was near. The Ifedis were ready. Or at least, as ready as any loving, chaotic, bustling Nigerian family could be.