ALMOST A BRIDE

My name is Ruth Amata, and I MISSED MY OWN WEDDING. 

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Pause. Let that sink in. Yes, you read that right. Who misses their own wedding, you ask? Apparently, it is I. The girl who calls herself a risk-taker but probably just has catastrophically bad impulse control when stressed. And oh boy, was I stressed. 

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Look, every girl dreams of that perfect wedding, right? The fairy tale moment, the prince charming, feeling like royalty for a day. I certainly did. And Sam… Samuel Bassey is my prince charming. The love of my life. The man who knows the dog-eared pages of my soul, who loves me unconditionally, even when I forget my stanky wig in the center of his living room (and he hates that by the way).  

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When I said "YES!" to him, beneath that ridiculously romantic, and frankly over-decorated guava tree at his backyard, I knew it was the truest word I’d ever spoken. I vowed then and there to give him everything, all the love, all the romance, everything a man that good deserved. 

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Which brings me to the ‘grand gesture’. 

 

Okay, confession... so you know the tale of the "precious virginity gift" a bride is meant to give her groom on their wedding night, right? Yeah, apparently, mine went on an unscheduled adventure back in Uni with Mr. Wrong (a story for another therapy session). Point is, Plan A, which was supposed to be my unbroken hymen sealed tightly between my thighs, and ready to be popped like a cherry on my matrimonial bed, was out of the question. This meant I needed a spectacular Plan B. So, what could I give Sam? What knockout, sweep-him-off-his-feet, fall-helplessly-in-love-all-over-again surprise could I possibly concoct? 

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And just so we're clear, this pressure wasn't coming from Sam. He already knew all about my past—he's Sam, he knows everything. The thing is, we had never done "it." Not even close. I think the closest we've ever gotten was a five-second kiss after he proposed, only for his mother to start shouting "Praise the Lord!" from the kitchen window. With both of us being Preacher's Kids, sex was strictly on the "wait-until-marriage" plan. So no, this wasn't about him. This was all me. It was the weight of a thousand Sunday school lessons, the feeling that since Sam wouldn't be my first, I'd somehow failed the ultimate test of being the "virtuous bride." So, you see, I needed to redeem myself somehow. I needed an ultimate wedding night grand gesture that would mean more than popping a cherry. 

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My Sam is a foodie. The man appreciates a good meal like some people appreciate fine art. And that’s when, two weeks before the wedding, while scrolling through Instagram during a bout of pre-wedding insomnia, I found her -- Lucinda Osuji, CEO Freshie Fly Cuisine. Her page was a colourful gallery of culinary perfection. I’m talking exotic meals, artful presentation, glowing testimonials. She specialized in creating experiences... Bingo! That was it, a romantic, bespoke dinner for two, just for Sam, on our wedding night. It was perfect. 

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I contacted her, we chatted, she painted a picture of starlit dining and flavours that would make angels weep. I paid a hefty deposit, money I’d meticulously saved, money that could have gone towards… well, anything else, really. But this was for Sam. This was my grand gesture.

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Fast forward to the week of the wedding. Madness. Pure, unadulterated madness. I was running around like a headless chicken organizing seating charts, chasing down vendors, dealing with Auntie Caro’s opinions on everything. Exhaustion was my middle name. And then, the panic started. Lucinda, my culinary fairy godmother, went silent. Thursday night, two days before the wedding, I tried calling -- voicemail. Text message -- Unread. WhatsApp -- A single grey tick. Instagram DM -- Seen… hours ago, no reply. 

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A cold dread, thick and suffocating, began to seep into my bones. This wasn't just a small detail; this surprise dinner was everything. It was supposed to be the centerpiece of my redemption. I’d tried frantically calling a few local caterers; one laughed, one quoted a price that would require selling a kidney, and another suggested suya and beer (not quite the vibe I was going for). The panic tightened its grip. Lucinda had to come through. Somehow, this dinner stopped being just dinner. It had grown into something massive in my head. More than just food, it felt vital, almost symbolic... like I needed it to prove something? Or maybe make up for... you know what I mean.  It just had to happen. 

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When Friday finally dawned, after a night spent staring at the ceiling fan and mentally composing increasingly frantic messages to Lucinda, I knew I had to find her. Logical Ruth had left the building. Desperate, sleep-deprived, slightly unhinged Ruth was now in charge. Lucinda's business address was on her Instagram bio. She was in Owerri, Imo State. I was in Calabar, Cross River. 

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A sane person would cut their losses. A sane person would focus on, you know, getting married tomorrow. But a tiny voice, running on panic and romantic delusion, whispered, “It’s just a quick in and out dash. Find her, get confirmation or your money back, and be home before dinner. Sam deserves this.” 

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And friend, I listened to that voice.