Some moons ago, my chick Nwanyi
and I had decided to take our
relationship to the next level. We thought
it would be a good idea for me to come
over to her house and meet her parents
for the first time as we had been going
steady for a while. For any Igbo couple
who are dating, this is a huge deal.

Typically you do not get to meet an Igbo
girl’s father unless you had plans to
bequeath her your surname in the
future. Or he summoned you to
respectfully threaten you to leave his
daughter alone.

Two days before the planned visit,
something came up at Nwanyi’s office so
she had to travel out of town for an
urgent project audit. No problem, I
bravely offered to go see her folks on my
own as her parents had reshuffled their
schedule in anticipation of our coming
over. I wanted to prove I had the cojones
to go on my own. Besides I am quite the
charmer with older folks. I have the
aristo genes in me.

However on the day, I started to feel
anxious, nauseous and nervous. I got to
her folk’s estate and parked a street
away from their house as I waited in my
car to gather my calmness. What would
her folks be like? Traditional or funky?
Will I be able to make small talk without
sounding daft? What if they hated my
guts? Would Nwanyi and I be
condemned to a life of love in exile?
I looked at my choice of clothing. Was
this the right shirt to wear for this kind
of movement? A light distressed denim
shirt with dark jeans and a pair of
Jordans? Now that I had stepped out into
the sunlight I noticed how faded and
washed my jeans really looked. They
looked like I had doused them with
Whitelicious. Shebi Pa Nwanyi will not
mistake me for Charlie Boy and Lady
Gaga’s stepchild?

Maybe I should have worn a smart
button down shirt, khakis and tasseled
loafers. Or suited up in my Sunday best,
like some Nigerians do only when they
are going for a visa interview at the
Yankee or British embassy.
It was too late for that now. I hauled
myself out of the car, and stepped to the
entrance of the house. Have you ever
miscued when knocking on a door
nervously? I had aimed softly at the
metal door using the tips of my knuckles.
It however sounded like a thuds of a
debt-collecting landlord. GBAM! GBAM!!
GBAM!!! Chei.

The house-help opened the door and I
was ushered into a very smart looking
living room with a large TV on the center
console. Nwanyi’s father and her uncle
were seated around it discussing the
scenes. Their pet dog Torino was
lounging by the dining table nibbling on
a chicken bone. It paid me no mind, and
I was thankful for that because it had a
stout muscular upper body that would
have made Gentle Jack look like a wimp.
Papa Nwanyi welcomed me then
introduced me to the uncle. He
mentioned that bae’s mum and younger
sister were upstairs and would be down
shortly. There was a politics/current
events program on the TV which was
discussing Boko Haram’s latest exploits,
so dad and I started chatting, while the
Uncle looked on like some Lagosians do
when there is an accident on 3
Mainland Bridge.

Fifteen minutes in, I was relaxed as
Nwanyi’s dad was very engaging. We
spoke about everything – politics, the
then kidnapping sagas in the East, our
lame-duck government, the increased
price of garri in the market, how SAP
and MAMSER hindered Nigeria in the
80s, Afrocandy’s antics, how Tonte Dike’s
latest single broke the internet, the Ibori
scandal, global warming and the effects
of it on Ajah, Lekki’s landlords’ knack of
choosing tenants based on ethnicity, how
social media is creating a new siddon look
populace and a nation of photographers,
Charles Novia vs everybody, Nigeria in
the oil boom days, what would have
happened if Biafra had won, apartments
in 1004, how runs girls are ruining the
Nigerian senate – everything except why
I was there.
Meanwhile her Uncle trained his eye on
me as if he was doing a mental
background check, and never shifted his
gaze.

Then Nwanyi’s mum came downstairs
with her sister following behind, and I
rose to greet her first “Good afternoon
ma. Great to finally meet you. I must say
that Nwanyi got her beauty from you.”
She spoke “I am actually Nwanyi’s
younger sister. That is mumsy behind
me…”
Her mumsy waved.
Yaba Cemetary silence. I giggled uneasily
as I tried to back-track and get my foot
out of my mouth.

Nwanyi’s mum saved the awkwardness
by interceding “Welcome Esco. How are
your family? Here, have some orange
and groundnuts. E ga-eri garri na ofe
onugbu (Will you care for some eba
featuring bitter leaf soup)?”
I thankfully declined her offer of eba
featuring bitter soup (bless her heart),
but accepted the oranges and g-nuts.
Now I detest oranges and never eat them
outside the comfort of my home if I can
help it. Oranges smell funny, and then
there is no sane way to eat an orange
without losing your comportment. As I
sucked on it, all the veins on my
forehead were protruding like exposed
NEPA tension wire.

It all went a bit quiet for a few minutes,
as the dad watched his program while I
fiddled with my half-eaten orange.
So, I decided to push the envelope, like a
bribe to a local government officer, by
announcing the reason for my visit “Sir
and Mama, Nwanyi and myself felt it
would be a good idea for me to come and
introduce myself to the family. I have
gotten quite close to Nwanyi in the last
few months and I wanted to meet and get
to know her family. Thank you for
birthing her – she is really awesome.
Hopefully I will be coming around once
in a while”

Her dad looked at me as if I had said
something funny like asking him to
include me in his will.
The house-help stood by the door
watching. Even Torino looked perplexed.
The Uncle just stared at me from corner
as he threw the groundnuts into his
mouth – single nut by single nut. He
even started chumping loudly as I tried
to sell my spiel. He was playing bad cop,
to Nwanyi’s dad good cop.

Nwanyi’s dad started with a furious
question and answer session: “Where are
your parents from? What are your
passions and interests? Where do you see
yourself in 5 years? How did you meet
Nwanyi? Where do you worship? What
do you do for a living young man? Oh
you are an author? No, a blogger? Oh
you submit articles to blogs? Oh that is
beautiful – are they like Sahara
Reporters. Ah news, red carpet, gossip
and internet-breaking articles? Decent.
By the way how do you earn a living
with that? Is it pro bono? They should
pay you…”
I did not shirk any question, and it
seemed to impress him.
Studying me in silence for a good 10
minutes – he finally gave me a somewhat
seal of approval “Any ‘friend’ of my
daughter is a friend of mine. Feel free to
stop by and see us anything, and greet
your parents for me.” Notice how he
used the word ‘friend’. The word
“friend” to an Igbo person means many
things. It can be sweetest term of
endearment or the highest form of insult
(for example “Pssst…. enyi, would you
come here now!”)

Translated from an Igbo man’s unspoken
language, it really meant “So Esco, you
have designs of being with my precious
vestal virgin of a daughter. Good choice.
Let me warn you though, I raised my
daughter as a good girl, a decent Catholic
girl. No runs girl has come from this
home. If it comes to marriage, and by
God it had better, you will be marrying
into the family of life. But we will be
watching you and investigating your
family background to make sure you are
up to par. We suggest you and your folks
do the same”

And like that I was now in the circle of
trust. The circle of life. The pot of life.
Even Torino shook his tail like a trigger-
happy Nigerian sergeant waving his
shakabula when escorting a CBN bullion
van.
I looked at the time – it was getting late
so I shoved the rest of the groundnuts
into my pockets and rose up to take my
leave.

Her Uncle gave me a look like
“Mscheew…..What kind of a name is
Esco sef .”

How was your experience when you first
met the parents of your significant other?

this fiction is too long

Bros ur story sweet but damn too long

Nice story...
Bad choice of clothing tho'.

Meehn,i enjoyed reading this

igboGuys_am coming for y'all

cheeketo:
this fiction is too long

This isn't too long joor..
E sweet die.. Just like u...

Oh boy...

ivyT:
Meehn,i enjoyed reading this

igboGuys_am coming for y'all

we are waiting 4 u, swithat

Emvin:


we are waiting 4 u, swithat

Send ur driver to come pick me up

ivyT:


Send ur driver to come pick me up

No p...just pm me ur address