Bridge Over Still Water

 

Are you marrying against cultural dictates? This story is for you.

 

I grew up with five brothers and sisters in a low-cost housing estate. Right from childhood, my father inculcated the spirit of survival in me and my siblings, so much so that by the age of ten years, I already had the inclination for endurance, beating the odds and wanting to stand out amongst my mates. I found it boring having to do the things they did. I just liked the idea of being different. Following the Joneses was not my cup of tea. I would want to question established norms, values and beliefs , and most times look for alternatives, not recklessly, but firmly hold on to my arguments.

Many misunderstood my stand for stubbornness. Saw me as someone with a big ego or who just refused to back down in an argument. Deep down I knew this is not true. Most of my thinking revolved round a person’s prerogative to make a good or bad choice, take decisions and stand by them, uphold a sense of loyalty to family and friends and the truth that one is responsible for one’s destiny.

After high school, I got into petty trading to make extra money, while taking evening classes for a degree in computer science at a nearby college. Before long, my petty trading improved in scope and the money was rolling in from all sides. I was introduced into the lucrative business of bringing in accident and used cars from European and Asian countries. These cars were refurbished and resold into the market at profitable prices. I found it much easier making Belgium my base. The hard currency was coming in at speed of lightning, and made it possible to buy a nice house in a good neighbourhood, peaceful with beautiful trees lining the well-terraced road.

Christine, half Belgian, half English lived a few blocks away. Nothing really striking about her looks, so not the sort of girl you would stretch out your neck to give a second glance. However, when we came up closer at a supermarket on the high street, there was something special about her…something. She was pushing her shopping trolley, while I clung to my basket as I only had a couple of things to pick up for the house. Bang, we collided as she pushed her trolley round the corner of the detergents section, while I was too busy looking for spaghetti bolognaises sauce.

‘Oops, pardonnez- moi. I am so sorry. You alright?’ she spoke in broken English, with a heavy French accent.

‘I am the one who should be apologising for my clumsiness.’

‘No, it is me; I should have been more careful going round that corner. I always do that.’

‘Not to worry.’

‘Okay, thanks. Au revoir,’ she said, waved, and disappeared.

I did not think too much about the encounter except that it gave me a chance to see her up close.

Another opportunity came when my friend in Belgium, Frank, invited me for a couple of drinks and a bite at a local pub. I jumped at the chance because it had been a particularly horrible day, rain, drizzle, then more rain. Really miserable and a night with the lads seemed a good idea. Already seated with another group was Christine, my elusive neighbour.

‘Hi,’ I raised my hand.

‘Bon soir,’ was her response.

‘You two know each other?’ Frank asked me.

‘Yes and no. She is my neighbour that is all. We hardly speak, except when I bumped into her at the supermarket a few days ago.’

‘Allow me to introduce you then.’

Before I could protest, he waved towards Christine.

‘Hey, Christine, come over and meet my friend from Nigeria.’

Christine said something to her friends, got up and walked over to our table.

‘Christine, meet Kevin. Kevin, this is Christine,’ Frank introduced us.

‘We have met,’ Christine offered her hand.

I took it and something sparked in me. Was it her smile which lit up her entire face? Or her soft, moist hand? Or the genuine warmth, that shone from those eyes, for a stranger, a black man for that matter?

Most times white women have been warned to be wary of black men for several reasons: ‘They are studs.’ ‘They break women’s hearts.’ ‘They use and dump women.’ ‘They marry for citizenship.’ ‘They marry for money.’

 ‘Can I get you a drink?’ I offered.

‘Not right now. I have one. Thanks. I’m with friends.’

‘Okay, some other time then.’

‘Sure,’ she said and turned to Frank.

‘Frank, come and see us soon. We miss you and those jokes of yours, a bientôt.’

‘Ya! So long Christine, a tout a l’heure.’

After she left, I did not give her much thought until yet again another chance meeting while going for my early morning jog around the city park. It was a particularly chilly morning, and the only thought was just to get the jogging over as quickly as possible. On sighting her in front, I quickened my pace to catch up with her.

‘Bonjour Christine, how are you.’

‘Je vais bien, merci.   Et vous?’

‘Ca va bien.’

I was soon jogging beside her. We chatted about the weather, the country, asked questions about each other. We decided to crown the jog with deserved cups of Belgian coffee and fresh croissants. We felt at ease with each other and we lost track of time. There and then we decided to meet again every day for a jog. It soon became a routine we both looked forward to and I more than her, probably, felt a vacuum in my daily routine whenever I missed the jog.

We soon went out on several dates together. Some people looked at us indifferently—a black man with a white lady—holding hands while a few stared with hostility in their eyes. The night she invited me to dinner to meet her parents was a night to remember. She never told them about me, about my country of origin and about me being an African. After all, Kevin sounds English or American, or even could be taken for a Belgian, but not in their lifetime did they bargain for a black man.

They were civil and polite quite alright, tried to hold a conversation, any topic that would make the dinner less boring with limited space of silence. The only sound was the noise of cutlery on china plates, as we cut through the rump steak and vegetables.

‘Don’t worry about my parents,’ Christine said as she held my hand outside in her parent’s garden. ‘They are lovely parents you know. Give them a couple of months and they will get used to the idea of our friendship.’

True to her words, they did get used to the idea and came to appreciate me as one of the family. Not only because I was successful, although honestly that helped, but I fitted in well into their way of life.

Unfortunately I could not say the same for my family back in Nigeria. I knew it was pointless trying to tell them about Christine. They would have objected right from the start, talking about the shame I am going to bring on the family and all the negatives of having a white woman for a wife. First is the language barrier, the culture diversity, not to talk of the skin. For instance my older sister reasoned that Christine would not have even given me a second look if I was poor.

She said, ‘Christine is marrying you because you can pay for the lifestyle she is used to. What does she care about your family anyway? Tell me. I can’t see this marriage lasting more than a few years unless you continue to live in Belgium. Bring her home and she will be frustrated by all the shenanigans going on in this country.’

My mother spat fire. ‘My son, I gave birth to you, and did not bargain for a white woman for a daughter-in-law, when there are beautiful young girls here in Nigeria who are ready to give me five or six grandchildren. I hear these white women like their figure so much they can’t even bear the thought of getting pregnant. They have not more than two in a few cases where they like children. You had better think properly about this your decision, except you want to send me early to my grave.’

My father understood, as usual. For him it was all about happiness, compatibility, and about choosing a partner I could live with forever. Once I was okay with the decision, he was with it too, he had once told me.

I was not put off by my family’s concerns, though they had threatened not to come to the wedding if I went ahead, with the exception of my father who continued to plead with my mother to see reason. My father would not want to come alone without my mother. With my siblings in disarray, some supporting, and others against my decision, it was really dreadful. Christine was worried, but I stood my ground, so we went ahead with the planning.

We hired the services of a wedding planner, Jane. Jane completely took over our stress, even went as far as communicating with my parents, trying to persuade them to come to the wedding. Though I pretended, for Christine’s sake, to be enjoying the activities that go with a wedding plan, my heart was bleeding each time I remembered that my family may still shun my wedding.

Jane warned me a week before the wedding that it was a 50-50 chance of having, at least, my parents, at the wedding. Reason being, her entreaties were falling on deaf ears, not only that the chances of getting flight seats on time for the wedding was another headache. I thanked her for the efforts, and told her to drop the idea in the end.

I married Christine on a bright spring morning in a small country church on the outskirts of Belgium. As I walked in with my best man, Frank, (remember him?), I noticed some familiar heads and I turned to look back. There, sitting in the middle row, were my parents, two of my sisters and three brothers, my uncle, two aunts and my best Nigerian buddy, Wale.

I was visibly shocked. I had lost all hope of having my family at the wedding. They say men don’t cry, but my eyes swelled with tears of joy. Frank handed me his handkerchief.

‘My friend you have to dry your eyes quickly, before your bride comes in with her father. We don’t want her to look worried, do we?’

‘You are right,’ as I took the handkerchief and quickly dabbed my eyes. I looked up and nodded in my family’s direction with a broad smile. They responded by blowing kisses. My mother wiped a tear. I quickly composed myself as I waited for my bride at the altar.

Christine was looking beautiful and radiant in an off shoulder Christian Dior wedding dress embroidered from the waist down with cultured pearls, interlocked with pure satin and organza lace at the bottom and the train. The veil covering her face made her look angelic.

I took a deep breath as I lifted her veil when the vicar said, ‘You may kiss the bride.’ It was a beautiful ceremony, but the best part of it all was reconciling with my family at the reception. Christine and I know that it would not be smooth sailing, but our vow is to treat each problem as they come.

Story Credit: Waving in the Wind by Bisi Abiola, Outskirtspress, 2014

Photo Credit: Creative Commons