I finally accepted that something deeper than the failing government was wrong with this country. I had just boarded a bus to Port Harcourt when one of the “Pastor” passengers said I had sold my soul to the devil because I was wearing ripped jeans and therefore I was going to hell. Apparently, there was somewhere in the Bible that said wearing ripped jeans was equivalent to murder. Anyway, since I had already paid for a ticket and boarded the bus, I blocked him out with my earphones. We cannot all be mad in this country. But then again, we might all be.

I was heading to Port Harcourt for my younger sister, Joy’s wedding. I was still shocked, the girl did not even know how to tie her shoelace and now she believed that she knew what love was. There was surely something that sipped sense away in this Nigerian air or maybe it was just the sun. I didn’t know if I was more disappointed in myself, having failed in my duties as an elder sister, or if I was, in her, for forgetting everything I had taught her. She should know better, I thought. She should had known fried plantain was more relevant than love.

Ten years ago my mother walked in on my father having sex with the maid on the kitchen table. The maid’s excuse was “Madam sorry, Oga say you no dey move body for bed.” That same year, Joy and I received our first heart breaks too. I was in Primary 4 and she was in Nursery 3; my first love eloped with my best friend to the notorious dark corner under the staircase to check what colour of underwear she was wearing. Joy had given her favourite pencil to her first love and he had given it to another girl. To make it worse, he had bitten off the eraser on the pencil and given it to yet another girl –the player! So that year, the three of us swore to never have any man in our lives.

The thing that freaked me out the most is that Mom is actually in support of the young man and the wedding, my mom, the destroyer of love and all romantic prospects? I thought she was actually calling to enlist me in her army to fight against whatever bug my sister caught till I heard “Margaret, I know you don’t trust men because of past experiences but this one is different.” As I pondered on what charm he used on my Mom and what church to involve in this case, someone stepped on my foot and my newly polished nails, which cost me a fortune. I bit my lips to avoid screaming out in pain and look up to see a man with a scowling face. I stared at him with an “Ehe. I’m waiting for the apology” look on my face and he said “What? Your foot was in the way. Could you adjust a bit or drop your bag on the floor? I need to keep my jacket in that space. I don’t want it to get creased.” I ignored him as I had ignored the “Pastor” who had seen the Book of Life directly from Angel Gabriel and was sure my name was not there. We are all mad in this country, especially the men.

The journey commenced thirty minutes later. It was going as smoothly as a typical Nigerian journey can go, complete with the city traffic, the friendly “You dey craze. Look at how this man dey drive like mad man” greetings from different drivers, the hustling “Aunty buy Gala” business men, and of course the really bad roads that could make a pregnant woman go into labour. We had been on the road for approximately two hours when the bus coughed, groaned and rolled to a stop right in the middle of nowhere and the driver said “Make una no worry. E go just be the carburetor. Everybody come down. I go fix am in less than five minutes.” Of course, it was the carburetor. It’s always the carburetor. Fifteen minutes later, our mechanic cum driver had not yet fixed the carburetor and with the look on his face, it was turning out the problem may not even be related to the carburetor. The bus probably did not even have a carburetor, whatever that was.

About an hour later, the bus had still not started. It was getting really late and most of the passengers had already given up on our driver and were trying to flag down passing buses, some passengers had already succeeded. It was getting really chilly and I was rubbing my arms to keep myself warm. I could not blame the weather; it was just as confused as the citizens in this country, one minute it’s so hot that I can fry eggs on the road and the next minute, it’s freaking cold. As I tried to flag down buses, Mr. ‘My jacket is more important than you’ nudged me and offered me his jacket. Me that was dying of cold still had the guts to say “No o. Don’t worry. We wouldn’t want your jacket to crease when I wear it.” He chuckled and said “I’m sorry about what happened earlier, I was just having a bad day. Today is not just going my way.” Aha! I finally found the culprit behind the bus breaking down; this one has his village people following him around. I sha collected the jacket because I cannot come and go and let cold kill me because I want to form bad ass.

We finally flagged down a bus heading to Port Harcourt. It had some passengers already so we cramped up inside. I was sitting close to Mr. ‘My jacket is not that important anymore’. He smelled like chocolate and he was warm and I was cold so I wasn’t really complaining. Since there wasn’t really much any of us could do, we got into a conversation. We talked about everything and nothing, about failing governments and tourist presidents, the hype behind the Nigerian Jollof, Mr. Eazi’s betrayal, the savagery on Twitter, failed relationships and bad breakups, about food and books and writing and travelling which we concluded was all that really mattered. When we got to Port Harcourt, I had a feeling that neither of us wanted the journey to end. I got down from the bus, thanked him for his jacket and got into a taxi. I was half way home when I realized that I never got his name or number.

The next morning I woke up and realized my baby sister was getting married and I hadn’t yet investigated and interviewed the imposter of a fiance. I mean, I had met him last night but I was pretty tired. He had introduced himself as John. Can you imagine? My sister did not fall in love with anyone with a cute name like Jaden or Jeremy, it was someone as random as a ‘John’. Something must have been wrong somewhere.

I didn’t have much time to speak with my sister. Nigerian weddings! Everyone wanted to outdo themselves. First, we had the makeup artists then the photographers taking pictures from every angle. If I ever get married, it will be a secret wedding.

I managed to survive the long boring church service where the fat pot-bellied priest had probably decided in his mind that “You people want to go and eat wedding jollof shebi? Today na die. Nobody is leaving here today.” After a miraculous intervention by the invincible host of heaven who decided to answer my prayers (and probably the prayers of more than half of the church), he said the final amen and we moved on to the reception.

I chose a table in an obscure location and monitored events from there. My sister was literally glowing and she looked so happy, it was contagious. John looked like someone who just won the lottery. Even mom looked happier than she had been in a really long time. As I drank in the moment, I heard a voice behind me say “Nigerian weddings eh. Everyone wants to outdo themselves. If I ever get married, it’ll be a secret wedding.” I turned back to see who was literally voicing out my thoughts and to my surprise, it was the guy from yesterday. He gave me the most dashing smile and said “Could you adjust a bit? I need to keep my jacket in that space.” I shook my head and rolled my eyes and wondered why my heart rate just increased and my brain felt like it was turning to goo. Maybe I should give this love thing a try. We have all lost our minds in this country and I cannot be left out.