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Maid of Honour

Ijeoma Mbah

    On my first day at the university of Lagos, the earth literary stopped for me to feast my eyes on the handsome face of Malik.
    He was everything I ever imagined my dream man would look like. He was tall, dark and sightly built.
     I sauntered towards him on shaky feet, stretching out my hand for a handshake, “Hi, my name is Amaka,” I said, quivering with excitement like a leaf in the harmattan.
    He stared down at my hand like I was thrusting out a bag of filth towards him, “I don’t shake ladies, it’s against my religious principles, my name is Malik, and I am the Students Union President.” he replied in his clipped baritone voice.
    He left me standing with my out stretched arm, and my mouth open. Covered in embarrassment and shame, I retreated into my protective shell.
    As I strolled back home, I couldn’t help thinking about the handsome face of Malik.
    “Haa, he’s an attention seeker, he finds me attractive!” I reassured myself, thankfully no one was listening, I will never stretch out my hand towards him again! Never!
    That day, I promised myself that I will always hide my attraction and feelings towards him.
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    Two years later.
    The sound from my phone, jolted me awake. I reached for my phone and pressed the answer button.
    I could hear the voice of my best friend on the other end of the phone, she sounded excited and out of breath.
    I wondered what had happened this time.
    “Amaka dear, guess what just happened to me!”
    I tried guessing, but I couldn’t, “Lola please, it’s late, I have a test tomorrow, can you just say what it is?” I blurted with irritation.
    “Well, Malik just proposed to me, we are getting married! And I want you to be my maid of honour,” Lola screamed delightfully on the other end of the phone.
    I was silent for a while, till she asked, “Amaka, are you asleep already?”
    “I am wide awake, Lola,” I cleared my throat as I spoke.
    “I am happy for you Lola, however I cannot be your maid of honour.” I continued, “I am sorry.”
    “Amaka, you are my best friend, do this for me, you know I would do the same for you,” Lola urged.
    Lola was such a drama queen, I could picture her pouting as she held her cell phone with her right hand while examining her left hand, admiring her new engagement ring, given to her by my handsome Malik.
    What could be more painful, I couldn’t even say no to her. My best friend is getting married to the only Man I ever loved.
    “Alright, I will be happy to be your maid of honour,” I could hear her chuckling over the phone, like a spoilt little rich girl.
    As the voice of Lola faded into the darkness, I laid awake all night on my bed. That night, some part of me died.

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