The preparations for my family's trip to Chicago began weeks prior to the 3 a.m. flight into the O’Hare airport. Love was in the air as my cousin, David, was getting married!
Nigerian weddings require grandeur and meticulous detail. Thus my family had selected and imported many meters of bronzed-colored fabric to maintain a consistent theme for our traditional attire. My father had found Aunty Mina, a local seamstress whose skills were fit for the task of sewing our cultural garments. My mother, sister and I had spent our afternoons packed in her air-conditioned, renovated garage, our gazes switching from the fatuous dramatics of Succession to observing her deft fingers stitch honeyed cloth until our dresses were finally complete.
Through my many trips to the Boston-Logan airport for Groton, early morning flights were a familiar experience. Traveling from my city, Greensboro, to Chicago was only a brief 2 hours. Before I knew it, our Uber was cruising from the dilapidated streets on the outskirts of the city to the lively and bustling southside of Chicago. Because of my sister’s college tour, my family decided to arrive before the wedding to stay in a hotel located within the campus of UChicago. The days preceding had blurred into promenades on muggy evenings on the riverwalk, a night on a rickety boat watching the crackle of fireworks illuminate the sky, seeking refuge from the blistering heat in Chicago’s Art Institute trying to determine which paintings applied pointillism or divisionism in the Van Gogh exhibit, and the late dinners at the hotel’s restaurant, just 10 minutes shy of closing. When our time indulging in our tourist activities dwindled, I realized that I had fallen in love with Chicago’s ‘goldilocks pace and restive streets, and was disappointed the trip was beginning to come to an end.
The day before the wedding, as recommended by David, my family relocated to a hotel closer to the venue. Following our quick move, we made the trek to our relatives' rooms to greet them. Little did we (my sister and I) know that we were to be roped into the task of packing 300 gift bags for the wedding attendees. Passionate Yoruba words, which sounded more argumentative than genial, flew over my head while I was fighting to keep my eyes open through the tedium of folding towels, unpeeling resin keychains, and bagging them into coppery velveteen bags. My trance was broken by a particularly loud exclamation from an Aunty to my right. My cousin looked at me, “You don’t understand a word she’s saying, do you?” offering a knowing smile. I shook my head and returned to placing the David and Judith towels into the bags.
I was pulled from my dreamless slumber by the crisp hiss of a clothing iron, today was the day, I slumped back under my covers, desperate to return to my torpor. I was successful in these attempts; waking up 15 minutes later with my mother rushing out the door to her makeup appointment, which I was excited to see the results of, and my dad had already gone off to pick up some pre-wedding food. The early morning hours went by quickly, and almost as soon as I had woken up, I was in a car with wet mascara leaking into my tear ducts and my feet already hurting from my stilt-like heels. As we filed into the venue, I noticed the ornate designs of others' dresses which contrasted the simplicity of mine. Some had different colored linings and extra cuts of lacy fabrics, radiant headpieces, and wraps adorned the heads of many Bakare women with heels double the size of mine. As my eyes surveyed each intricately designed dress, the skillful decorations of papel picado, minute candles providing warmth to the stark white walls of the room, rows of families and friends and everyone in between, the small band with their blue marbled drum set and matching instruments, and the velvet couch with gleaming gold rims complete with an arch of various flowers I had never seen before. The buzz of the room was quickly cut off by the booming voice of the priestess. The woman was small, yet her very presence seemed to command the room, and shortly she began. The incandescence of her chants, cries, and prayers captivated every spectator as she performed ritual after ritual until the groom, followed by the bride, walked down the aisle. Judith’s dress was by far the most beautiful of all. A rich electric blue embellished with glittering crystals with a sea of delicate lace plumbing at her ankles, a sheer veil obscured her face, and a coral necklace, a symbol of significance to my family. This intimate cultural ceremony was followed by an equally as compelling traditional wedding, the vows of which left not a single damp eye. This momentous day ended at two in the morning after a game of La vibora de la mar (the sea serpent game), the spraying of money on the bride and groom (FIVE times, which I had to pick after), dancing to afro beats and Spanish music. When the festivities concluded my family rode back to the hotel with 7 people packed into a 5-seater van, the adults exchanging stories of what Nigeria was like ‘back in the day’.
On the flight back to Greensboro I had time to reflect about my experiences in the charming city of Chicago. I realized that growing up I had missed out on a majority of cultural practices on my Nigerian side. I am grateful that this wedding provided the opportunity for me to reconnect with my roots and respectfully participate in another culture completely foreign to me.