Village People Did Mean Me ( Creative Nonfiction).

I just wanted to go to the village for my cousin’s traditional wedding. A simple weekend getaway, abi? But from the moment I stepped out of my house, it felt like the devil and Murphy’s Law held hands and said, “Let’s follow this one.” it's more like something we call Village people here.lol....

Source

---

Everything was set , I had bought new Ankara, my gele had already been shaped, and I was mentally prepared to slay and collect compliments from aunties who would pretend not to recognise me before saying, “Ah! You’ve grown o!”

The plan was simple travel from Lagos to my hometown in Akwaibom ,attend the wedding , eat jollof and nkwobi, snap pictures, and come back home , I even bragged to my friends about it, “This one na soft trip.”

First wahala? My transport.

I booked a seat in one of those fancy “executive” buses. AC, USB charger, and snacks, they said. But when I got to the terminal by 6 a.m., sweating in my nice black jeans, the bus hadn’t arrived. Apparently, the driver “was on the way from Ibadan.” Ibadan! On a Lagos Akwaibom schedule!

We left by 9:43 a.m. No AC. No charger. And the only snack was a warm bottle of La Casera and chin chin that tasted like cement. The bus made suspicious noises anytime it turned, but I held my faith.

Then , just before Benin, the bus broke down.

Not “let’s quickly fix it” breakdown. I am talking full shutdown. Driver came out, opened the bonnet, and just stood there like he was trying to speak in tongues over it. Somebody suggested we pray. Another person said we should call the company. One man started shouting, “I have appointment o! You people will refund me!”

Me? I just sat on my box and chewed the remaining chin chin.

After almost two hours and the help of a mechanic that used nylon as gloves, we moved again slowly. We finally reached my village around 10 p.m., 15 hours later, with my back, legs and spirit all aching.

I thought that was the end. I had not even started.

I got to my uncle’s compound and found out they had mistakenly locked the room I was supposed to stay in and the person with the key was in another village for vigil. “Just manage parlour,” they said. They gave me wrapper and a throw pillow. No fan. No mosquito net. Just me, ceiling lizard, and village heat.

By 3 a.m., mosquitoes had declared war on me. I woke up with bites on my face like I fought honey bees.

Next morning, wedding day, I decided to do my makeup outside for better lighting. Just as I finished the perfect winged eyeliner, a gust of wind blew red dust into my face. Eyeliner turned to black tears. My powder? Gone. I just stood there, blinking like Mowgli in the forest.

I went to fetch water to freshen up. On my way back, I slipped on ogbono soup someone had poured outside the kitchen. Fell flat. Ankara stained. Left wrist bruised. My cousin saw me and shouted, “Ha! You okay? Don’t cry o!” I wasn’t going to cry, but her voice triggered it. I cried. Full sobs. Mascara everywhere.

Still, I cleaned up, wore the second outfit I packed “just in case,” tied my gele anyhow, and showed up at the wedding smiling like I hadn’t just fought a personal war.

The ceremony itself was Beautiful..,

But as I was dancing with my cousins and sisters, someone accidentally poured palm wine on my dress. Then a small child used my leg as tissue. And finally, during photo time, the photographer's flash refused to work. He said, “Just smile, we will fix it in editing.” I looked like a ghost in those pictures.

At that point, I just started laughing.

Real, belly-hurting laughter. Because if I didn’t laugh, I would have screamed. Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong. Murphy didn’t just follow me he invited his cousins. This was practically the real definition of village people I swear.

But in the middle of the madness, something unexpected happened.

Later that night, sitting under the tree in the compound with my cousins and sisters, eating roasted corn and laughing about everything that happened, I felt… at peace. My body was tired, yes. My clothes were ruined. But my heart was full. This was life, after all unpredictable, hilarious, chaotic. Beautiful in its own crazy way.

So yes, my village trip was a full-blown mess. But it gave me stories, laughter, and a reminder that perfection is overrated.