28 and unmarried...

I am me, I am you, I am he, I am she, I am all of us; people. I change with the news, with the times, with my friends, with the trends, with your experiences and with mine…


Today, I’m 28 and I’m not married. I’m a Nigerian woman, so you can imagine my parents are worried my ovaries will rot. 28 and unmarried? Now, that’s just a taboo. I’m not necessarily the prettiest girl on the block, but I can hold my own in a room full of girls. I mean I have seen ugly girls get married… no offense. I work hard. Very hard. Sometimes I think a little too hard for me to have a “Real Life”, whatever that means. What drives me? I don’t know. The easiest thing to say is the need to succeed, but the more I think about it, its more than that. The hardest thing to admit is I’m afraid. I’m afraid of not being comfortable because it is all I’ve known. They say fear is the biggest motivator so that could very well be the drive.

I work in a little private bank in Switzerland. I am convinced I can find love here. I think I can but I have limits. My parents want a Nigerian man. I want a Nigerian man. They will have nothing less. I could have something less… but I don’t want to. They know what they want down to the tribe, like picking a good guy is not hard enough. Ahh… I guess I don’t mind much. I do have moments where I think of these “oyinbo” men as options but it is hard. I want someone that speaks my language, understands my culture and isn’t too embarrassed to eat Isiewu with his hands. The hard part of it all is I also want someone that would cook the Isiewu with me, tuck me into bed, and be a little more communicative than I’ve experienced Nigerian men to be. Finding that Nigerian man is a job in itself, and the one I have is stressful enough. Now, I’m definitely not saying they don’t exist. I am only admitting they are few and far between. Nod if you agree. So, I’m in a predicament: I love my Nigerian men, but I hate my Nigerian men. Okay, so maybe hate is a strong word, but I’ll let it sit a while.

I get paid very well, so I’m very comfortable. I guess I shouldn’t be afraid anymore, but who ever said human beings are ever satisfied when they achieve a milestone. They just want the next. When you get money, you want gold. When you get gold, you want diamonds: although I’m not sure how many Africans are so eager to buy diamonds after the Scorsese movie, “Blood Diamond”. Deep. Well, I am comfortable enough so I go home a lot. Okay so maybe not enough but for now every other year works for me. I stay connected and grounded. I see my grandparents and my old friends. After my 25th birthday, each trip became more and more bizarre. The “blind dates” and spontaneous match making fiascos couldn’t get any MORE bizarre. I try not to be rude because my parents are very old-fashioned and sensitive about the situation. They want grandchildren and I’m not giving them. But how many blind dates could you possibly go on before you wish you were actually blind. My last trip home I went on five dates in 3 days; that’s more than I can do in a year when I really set my mind to it. I don’t know how they do it but my mother definitely gets the ball rolling. It always starts something like this:

“Mr. Okogie’s son is a fantastic boy. He graduated from Harvard Business School with Summa Cum Laude and works for Merrill Lynch here in Lagos. Very handsome boy. He’s coming to pick you up later today so get ready! And put make-up o.”

Or


“Ah have you seen Robert Emekalu. He’s now a big boy in Lagos o. I saw him driving the new SLK and he’s the top oga at First Bank. Hmmm… why don’t you call him Ehn?!?”

I think the last straw for me was when my grandmother started recommending men. She looked me dead in the eyes; arms folded, with a desperate look on her face, O gini? 



Great! Now even Mama thinks I have no hope. 

Sigh. I hate the pressure. I don’t want to bend but I have to say it is getting to me. Are my standards too high or am I just being plain condescending to my “suitors”? The few I get. I recognize I am getting older. But I’m not that old am I? Well, my boobs are starting to sag a little. Thank God there is plastic surgery, they’ll never know. I don’t know…. Maybe a little compromise wouldn’t hurt anyone. I just don’t want to regret my compromise down the line. You know when they say, “He’s your husband, never raise your voice!” Or “Deal with your problems at home, no one else needs to know.” Or “Yes, he has a mistress. So? At least you're the one at home.” These are the men accosting me. I just sense their conservativeness. I’m afraid that’s what I’ll end up with 25years down the line. That word again. I’m afraid. What can I say, I’m a Y2K woman barricaded in this weird world I find myself in because of obligations to family and expectations of culture. Maybe it’s not such a bad thing but it’s definitely hard to navigate through successfully. Maybe when I’m 29, my luck will kick in. Sadly, it also means I'll be one year closer to 30. I hope I’m doing the right thing.