{Even shattered rules can build new wisdom, if you gather the pieces and learn.}
'''''
Sophia's POV
I swiftly move my head, my eyes roaming around the lavish hall full with several unfamiliar faces. The bunch of bloody strangers dressed in luxury. I am beginning to get overwhelmed, the sea of finely dressed bodies makes me feel like a lost needle amidst the sand of Sahara desert.
And who, really, who will care to come find me?
I can feel it deep in my guts. The feeling rising slow but relentless, a tightness in my chest, like a worm crawling up my throat, threatening to surge forth from my mouth, as a scream so loud that the whole faces will scatter to dust like the Sahara sand.
I take a deep breath, maintaining my poise. I fall into my breathing pattern, a protocol I've practiced over and over for moments like this, like I'm loosing control, equanimously masking my uneasiness.
None of this makes sense. Not the people, not the sounds, not the supposed joy echoing through the room. My gaze drift over the multitude again. The majestic presence of men in flowing agbada and dansiki, and women shimmering in vibrant gele and buba. The synchronizing rhythm of shiny shoes clicking on marble, the cacophony of laughter, murmurs and loud conversation, all blurring together into a meaningless noise.
If I can mute the world, I would. A good tape can definitely save my ears from this torment. I feel like a sprinter on the track, still at the starting line, the gun already fired.
I watch as a group gets up to dance to the tune of 2baba song - ' You Are My African Queen'. They are better dancers than I thought they would be. I expected the dance floor to look like a windy maize field.
If there is anything I actually like here, it's the flowers. I'll give the florist and whoever arranged them the whole world to plant more, at least the world will be completely beautiful and smell nothing but pleasant, something other than sweat and anxiety. Yes, just the flowers.
I am at a party. A Yoruba wedding party.
Is that what you guessed?
The Yoruba wedding is a must go event, like the Yoruba people have the saying ; ' Iroyin o to afojuba' Having the news dictated to you is not worth as much as seeing with one's eyes. And it's yet, the deep truth.
Aside from the wedding etiquette, there are varieties of sumptuous and plates upon plates of spicy and steamy, expertly made traditional meals that comes to the table at least twice. The contagious liveliness, the glamour, the beauties and so-called charming princes, striking radiant colors, the laughter, the music, the drama, happy tears, the effervescent chaos.
Well it's a joyous occasion that brings me nothing but dejection.
Dejection, yes.
I feel a slight brush against the back of my hand, making me withdraw my eyes from the crowd to look at my side.
He's right there, standing tall beside me, expressionless.
Khalid.
His face holds nothing. Just a blank stillness, like a paused video. His eyes aren't even on his bride,- he's staring into space.
Did I mention it is my wedding?
Or you figured that out?
The tall, unreadable man beside me is the groom. Khalid. We have no love story, no shared memories, no fairy-tale beginnings.which makes me worry a little about what lie I'll tell if I ever have to talk about our Journey 'Romeo and Juliet?'. Maybe 'Excuse me, He's just a stranger', since this is our first encounter.
We just said our vows, the most ridiculous lines I've ever had to say aloud. My inner demon passed out after a long and hard laughter. And honestly, I really can't blame her. Everything in the moment feels like a dream, like a joke I'm performing in, except no one gave me a script, and it's too real to be.
What the hell am I really doing?
There's something strange. His name, his face, they oddly seem familiar, like a shadow I've seen before but can't place. But still, there's a whisper at the back of my mind telling me I have, and I can't shake off this strange sense of familiarity.
His head suddenly drops to his side, his eyes landing on mine, directly. The banquet almost slips from my hand,but reflex kicks in. I'm gripping the stems now like a lifeline. This might as well be the first time our eyes collide, I don't recall that he looked at me this closely since this whole game began. I thought he was being shy, or afraid to get hooked by my beauty.
No, he's not shy. His gaze is intentional. the intensity of his gaze can bore the deepest hole in mine. Deep. Too deep it cuts through every layers I've spent years building, seeping through my solid walls, down to the core of my being. I feel like he's reading the language only I thought I spoke. I struggle to maintain my breathing protocol, but it's slipping. Because I feel like I am being exposed, like he can see right through everything known to just me, all my delicate secrets. But how in hell can someone do that with just a long enough stare?
I feel his hand hold mine, my head instantly snaps down as I pull my hand away.
My inner demon is awake and laughing uncontrollably
< ' he can hold you, he's your husband'> She whispers wickedly.
Oh right. I forgot for a second.
I bring my eyes back to him, expecting some reaction, but no, there's nothing, just silence. Then he holds out his hand again, a smile begining to form on his lips. A calculated one. A professional smile. The kind of smile you practice in front of a mirror, not the kind that reaches your eyes.
I hesitate, but place my hand in his, then he lead me through the crowd.
I observe the way Khalid smiles, measured, appropriate, flawless, the way the politician do. He accepts greetings and congratulations with grace, but it feels mechanical, like he's working out a checklist. The scent of colognes and perfume swarms my nose, making me twitch and wince. Too much of everything.
We reach the front row where his parents sit. The introduction happen so quickly, like it never did. I don't know who is who. The photographer calls us over and then we're taking pictures.
The photo session is awkward. The photographer complained more than once about how rigid we seem in his shots, like strangers, which of course, we are. He says we should express love. And maybe I'll need my internet for assistance.
The last thing I expect from Khalid is to slip his arm around my waist and jerk me close till our hips graze. I snap my head up, totally caught off guard. Then-
Click. The camera click went off.