The golden Abuja morning light was filtering softly through the curtains of my bedroom, throwing long, peaceful shadows across the floor.
It was beautiful. For six months, It has been back to back planning and meeting with vendors.
Today, it felt like there was a lot of noise in my head but the only sound was the steady, rhythmic tap-tap of the beauty blender against my cheekbone and the faint hiss of a hair straightener heating up on the vanity.
“Soteria, your phone is vibrating again,” Amara murmured from the corner of the room, her voice hushed so she wouldn’t disturb the makeup artist.
She was already zipped into her chief bridesmaid dress — a stunning, sophisticated emerald green that complemented her skin perfectly.
“Don’t touch that phone, Amara,” a sharp, authoritative voice snapped from the doorway.
My mom, Mrs. Idorenyin, walked into the room, looking absolutely regal in her gorgeous lace.
Her headtie was tied to perfection, not a single pleat out of place.
Behind her was Akila’s mom, Mama, who had a warm, knowing smile on her face.
At 5:00 AM, the two matriarchs had formed an impenetrable wall at my door. They had officially confiscated my phones, warned the extended family to stay downstairs, and told the bridal assistant that if anybody disturbed my peace, they would have to answer to them.
“Mummy, please, let me just check if the driver fetched Zainab from the hotel,” I pleaded, turning my head slightly.
“Soteria, look straight, abeg,” the makeup artist asked gently, holding my chin.
“Zainab is fine, baby” my mom said, walking over to smooth down the silk of my bridal robe.
“Somebody that flew into the country on her own, you are worried for her. She is downstairs with the other girls. Your only job today is to breathe and look beautiful for your husband. Let us handle the rest.”
I took a slow, deep breath, looking at my reflection in the mirror.
My hair was swept up into a clean, timeless updo, and the makeup was flawless. It was not too heavy, just classy and fresh.
When I smiled nervously, my gap tooth flashed back at me. A sudden, sharp ache hit my chest. Daddy should be here, I thought.
As the daughter of a late Major General, I had always pictured him walking me down the aisle in his full dress uniform, his chest proud. It hurt that he wasn’t alive to see this, but looking at my mom’s strong, resilient face, and knowing my brothers were downstairs waiting to escort me, the weight in my chest softened.
Finally, I thought, my mind racing back through the beautiful madness it took to get to this morning.
______________________________________
If anybody had told me that planning a wedding would nearly drive me crazy, I would have argued. I am a perfectionist by nature; I like my life being organized.
But merging our worlds was a different ball game entirely. Akila being a captain and my late dad a Major General, this wasn’t just a wedding. It was a military affair.
The sheer volume of protocols, guest lists filled with top-tier brass, and security logistics had been dizzying.
Two months ago, we had traveled down to my village in Akwa Ibom for the traditional wedding. It was beautiful and extremely intimate. We had it in the family compound.
Two days before the traditional rites, Effiom chartered two private jets to fly everyone to Uyo.
For the traditional wedding, I had insisted on a specific aesthetic.
Amara, Naya, and my other friends looked absolutely stunning in their coordinated cultural attire.
They wore a rich, deep burnt-orange lace tailored into gorgeous dresses, their headties pulled back into clean styles, and their necks adorned with coral beads.
When we landed in Uyo, a convoy of security and private vehicles fetched us straight to my late dad’s compound in the village. We wanted a tiny, symbolic family gathering, but the moment we pulled up to the gates, my heart dropped.
The concept of “small” doesn’t exist in when you are the only daughter of a late Major General. Over eighty extended family members from both my maternal and paternal lines had completely taken over the compound. The house was a loud, vibrant sea of older aunts and uncles in matching native wrappers, their voices echoing through the trees.
“Soteria is our only brother’s daughter,” my dad’s elder brother, Uncle Edet, declared, standing firmly in the center of the parlor with his walking stick.
“We cannot do a half-hearted thing for her. We must go all out so her father’s spirit rests proud.”
Before I could even unpack my bags, my uncles had ordered a huge cow to be brought into the compound and slaughtered for the feast.
The entire estate instantly transformed, the air filling with the heavy scent of woodsmoke, roasting meat, and the rich, mouth-watering aroma of Afang and Edikang Ikong soup simmering over open firewood hearths in massive iron pots.
For my traditional look, I wanted pure, regal modesty. I wore a heavily beaded, royal blue George fabric wrapper and a matching tailored corset top that accentuated my silhouette flawlessly.
My neck was heavy with generations of authentic, polished coral beads passed down from my grandmother, and my hair was styled into a high, intricate cultural updo wrapped in gold thread. When I looked in the mirror, a striking, proud Ibibio woman flashed back at me.
The process of the marriage itself was a long, beautiful, and exhausting cultural test. First came the Ndidiong Ufok (knowing the house), where Akila’s people had to officially identify my family home, followed by the intense negotiation of the Ecom (the traditional bridal list). My uncles didn’t make it easy; they went through the list item by item, demanding the exact specifications for the traditional items, the gin, and the wrappers for the elders.
Then came the grand entry. I was kept hidden in an inner room while my girls danced out first, clearing the path.
When it was finally time for the Mboppo presentation, I walked out into the courtyard under a rain of brass gongs and singing women. Akila was waiting in the center of the compound, looking like an absolute king in an embroidered top and a matching woven cap.
I had to fetch a cup of traditional palm wine, weave through the crowd of eighty shouting relatives, and find my husband. When I finally knelt before him, my eyes swimming with emotional tears, I handed him the cup.
He drained the entire glass, stood up, and pulled me up with him, his hand locking into mine while the entire village erupted into a deafening chorus of drumbeats and blessings.
If the traditional wedding was a deep dive into culture, the civil wedding was a stark, exhausting reminder of the reality of living in Nigeria. The process of getting our marriage certificate sorted at the government registry in Abuja nearly drove me to tears.
For over a week, I had been driving back and forth to that dusty government office in the heat. I did not want to use the connection my dad had. I wanted to experience what it felt like to go for what you want directly and without any help. I actually regretted doing that.
Every single day, it was a different story from the administrative staff.
One day they would tell me the registrar wasn’t on seat; the next day they would claim the official stamp had gone missing, or that our files hadn’t been properly cleared from the back office.
It was a classic, frustrating display of the corrupt Nigerian system, the workers purposely slowing down the process, dropping heavy hints for substantive motivation and bribes just to do the basic job they were paid for.
I refused to pay them a single kobo, which meant I spent days sitting on broken plastic chairs, watching the clock tick while my stress levels hit the roof.
One afternoon, I went to Akila’s house completely drained, dumping my bag on the table and bursting into tears of pure frustration. These days, my tear glands were on a spree. Every little thing, and a torrent pours out of my eyes.
“I am just tired, babe,” I sobbed, wiping my face.
“I’ve been going to that registry for eight days straight. They are just tossing me up and down, looking for bribes. The wedding is around the corner and we don’t even have the legal paperwork sorted!”
Akila had sat quietly on the sofa, listening to me, his jaw tightening into a hard line.
He hated seeing me stressed, and he especially hated the undisciplined, corrupt bottleneck of the public service. He didn’t say much; he just pulled me into his arms, kissed my forehead, and told me to not bother going alone again.
The next day, Akila purposely dressed in his full, immaculate captain’s uniform complete with his high-ranking epaulets, his cap, and his official staff car flanked by a uniformed escort.
He knew exactly how the Nigerian system worked; he knew that a corrupt system that oppresses civilians will instantly tremble and bow when faced with uniform authority.
When his staff car pulled up inside the registry compound, the entire atmosphere in the office changed in seconds.
The very same administrative staff who had been ignoring me for a week suddenly jumped to their feet.
The supervisor ran out of his inner office, sweating and tucking in his shirt, bowing repeatedly as he escorted usinside.
The missing stamp was magically found within ten minutes. The paperwork that had been “stuck in the back room” was brought out, verified, signed, and stamped in under fifteen minutes flat.
Akila didn’t have to voice a single threat or offer a single kobo; his presence alone dismantled them. He hated that he had to pull rank just to get basic compliance, but he did it solely to protect my sanity.
When the actual civil wedding morning arrived two weeks later, the atmosphere was completely different.
I woke up feeling a serene, lightweight happiness. For my civil wedding look, I went for a high-fashion, ultra-classy modern aesthetic.
I wore an ivory-white, structured midi-dress with sharp, tailored shoulders and a clean, modest neckline. My hair was styled into a sleek, low ponytail, and my makeup was barely-there fresh, highlighted by the simple sparkle of my diamond stud earrings.
The joining at the registry was swift and intimate. It was just our mothers, my brothers, Akila’s immediate family, Amara, and Naya.
The registrar, the very same man who had been sweating in front of Akila days prior, was on his absolute best behavior, turning the ceremony into a lighthearted affair with funny, theatrical remarks.
When Akila slipped the slim civil band onto my finger, his eyes were incredibly soft.
After the signatures were finalized, we headed straight to a gorgeous, exclusive restaurant. The space was a masterpiece of minimalist luxury, huge glass panels overlooking the landscape, tables decorated with simple white orchids, and floating candles that cast a soft, warm glow over our small party of twenty-five people.
It was a long, beautiful afternoon of eating good food, and listening to everyone say good things about the both os us. I could not have asked for better.
Sitting there with Akila’s arm resting gently on the back of my chair, looking at our official legal certificate on the table, I knew the our journey had been worth it. We were legally, culturally, and truly one.
By the time the civil wedding was over, I was completely running on empty. The months of fabric selection, arguing with the caterer, and chasing the decorator had drained me. I was either throwing a tantrum or crying to Akila on the phone every single night because a vendor had messed up.
One evening, exactly two weeks before the white wedding, Akila and I were taking a quiet stroll around the estate. I was in tears, completely losing my mind because the hair vendor had sent the wrong hair for my white wedding.
“I am just tired, babyyyyy!” I had cried, stopping under a streetlamp, wiping my face furiously.
“Everything is turning into a mess! The hair is wrong, the designer is changing the pattern on my dress, and I swear I’m going to look like a joke!”
Akila had stopped walking. He didn’t argue or try to give me a lecture.
He just stepped closer, blocking out the cold night air, and pulled me into his chest. He wrapped his arms around me, holding me so tightly I could hear the steady, calm thumping of his heart.
The scent of his woody cologne instantly washed over me, slowing my racing mind. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering peck against my temple.
“My baby,” he had murmured, his voice rough and incredibly gentle as his thumbs wiped my tears.
“Please, stop doing this to yourself. I don’t care about the hair vendor, and I don’t care about the dress. I just want my baby healthy and happy. Let the event planner handle everything. Allow Amara and Naya to sort things out. Just rest, my love.”
I had just nodded, thinking it was one of his usual comfort sessions.
I had no idea that the moment he dropped me off, he picked up his phone and called Amara.
According to Amara, he was so worried.
“Amara, my baby is stressing herself and i don’t like it one bit,” he had said.
“She was crying because of hair. I don’t like how stressed she is. It’s taking a toll on her. I want to do something for her. Please, find the best, most luxurious spa resort. Book a full, uninterrupted weekend for her, you, and Naya. I just need pure pampering for her . Send me the bills once you do.”
And they did. About one week to the wedding, Amara and Naya had walked into the parlor, asked me to pack some dresses, grabbed my phone, and they whisked me away to a luxury spa resort just outside Abuja for a three-day treat. It was heaven. Massages, facials, long hours of sleeping, and deep, endless gists with my girls without a single vendor calling to stress me. Akila had completely shielded me from the world, paying for everything just so I could find my smile again.
“Soteria, it’s time to wear your dress,” Amara’s voice cracked, pulling me out of my thoughts.
I looked up. The bridal assistant was holding up the magnificent white gown.
The silk of my bridal robe brushed against my ankles as I stood up from the vanity chair.
My wedding gown was an absolute masterpiece of luxury, a custom-designed, pristine white beaded lace dress that hugged my silhouette with a modest, classic precision before cascading into a dramatic cathedral train. Thousands of tiny, premium glass beads had been hand-sewn into the intricate lace; every time I took a slow, shallow breath, the entire dress shimmered under the bedroom lights, capturing the soft shadows of the morning. My hair was swept up into a sophisticated, timeless wavy wig, leaving my neck bare. It was exactly who I wanted to be: authentic, classy, and completely ready.
Before I could call out to Amara, the heavy mahogany door clicked open.
My mom walked in first, looking breathtakingly regal in her outfit. Right behind her was Akila’s mom, Mama, her headtie tied in a beautifulnorthern style that made her look like royalty.
The moment they stepped into the quiet room, a sudden wave of warmth washed over me. For the past three weeks leading up to the civil wedding and straight down to this white wedding morning, our families had been living here.
My mom had stubbornly insisted that Akila’s entire family must stay with us in the family mansion. She refused to hear anything about hotels or guest houses.
“They are our people now,” she had told me, and for the past week, the mansion had been a beautiful, chaotic haven. We had spent weeks waking up to the rich aroma of food, the sound of Ibibio and Hausa languages blending over breakfast mugs in the kitchen, and the continuous, comforting chatter of our mothers planning together.
Mama looked at me, her eyes instantly growing glossy with thick tears.
“Allah Ya yi muku albarka, Soteria,” she whispered, her voice trembling as she walked over and placed her warm, hands gently on my shoulders.
She closed her eyes, pouring out a deep blessing over my head, praying for my womb, my peace, and the longevity of my home. When she finished, she pulled me into a tight embrace that smelled of pure motherly love.
Then my mom stepped forward, her eyes were swimming with unchecked moisture. She took my hands in hers, her grip tight and reassuring.
“Unwana, our very little general,” my mom whispered, her voice cracking beautifully.
“Your father is watching you today and i know he is proud of you. You have grown into a wonderful woman, and you are stepping into the fort of a good man. May God protect your going out and your coming in. You will be the peace in Akila’s home.”
She pulled me into a fierce, lingering hug.
“Alright, no more crying oo, before the makeup spoils,” my mom laughed waterily, stepping back and wiping her cheeks with a handkerchief.
“We must go. The convoy is downstairs.”
“Soso babyyyy! Are you ready?” Naya’s loud, unmistakable voice suddenly boomed from the stairwell outside the open door.
I walked out to the landing, holding up the heavy train of my dress, and looked down into the grand foyer.
Naya was down there, looking incredibly beautiful in her emerald green bridesmaid dress, but she was currently in full coordinator mode, completely stressed as she tried to manage Wandi’s twins.
The little bride and page boy were looking adorable in their miniature white dress and tailored suit, but they were currently giggling and running around the pillars while Naya chased them with a pack of wet wipes.
“Stand still, both of you!” Naya yelled playfully, catching the boy by his collar.
“Sister Wandi, please come and carry your children oo! If they mess up their outfits, i will personally beat them up !”
I smiled, the planning was done. The stress was gone. I was ready to walk down the aisle into the arms of the man who knew exactly how to love me.
AkilaHyel’s POV
The silence inside my house this morning didn’t feel like the usual quiet.
It was heavy, thick with a strange, jittery energy that I hadn’t felt for years. I woke up at exactly 5am, my eyes snapping open long before the alarm on my phone could even ring.
By the time the sun reached its peak this afternoon, Soteria Unwana Idorenyin would officially be my wife.
We had argued about where to spend the night before the wedding.
Soteria had insisted that we stay apart to keep things traditional. So, she was over at the family mansion with her bridal train.
I had stayed in my old house with Effiom. The new house I got was yet to be furnished. The artisans took a lot of time delivering our furnitures so we had to stay over at my old place for now.
I kicked off the duvet and walked across the hallway to the guest room. Effiom was still snoring like a broken exhaust pipe, his frame sprawled across the mattress. He had arrived last night.
I wasn’t wearing my ceremonial dress uniform today.
Soteria and I had agreed that for the white wedding, I would wear a custom-tailored midnight blue suit. It was a masterpiece, sharp, clean lines that fit my shoulders perfectly, with a single white rose pinned to the lapel.
As I pulled on the crisp white shirt and fastened the heavy silver cufflinks, the absolute gravity of the day began to settle into my chest.
When we were both fully dressed, Effiom adjusted his own tie, his usual playful demeanor dropping for a brief second as he looked at me.
“Akila,” he said, his voice carrying a sudden, rough weight.
“Let’s pray.”
I nodded, my jaw tightening. We stood in the center of the room, bowing our heads, and Effiom placed his palm on my shoulder.
“Father,” Effiom began, his voice steady but thick with emotion.
“We thank you for today. We thank you for the journey that brought Akila and Soteria together. You saw him through the lonely years, the years where he built a wall around himself. And you sent a woman who knew how to break it with love. As he steps out today to take her hand before your altar, cover them with your blood. Grant them wisdom to navigate this season. Give them a peace that no man can disrupt. Bless this union. In Jesus’ name, Amen.”
“Amen,” I whispered.
I took a deep breath, clearing my throat to shake off the tightness in my chest, and pulled out my phone. I couldn’t help it.
I needed to hear her voice, even if it was just for five seconds to steady my rhythm. I dialed my mom’s number, knowing she would be close to her.
The screen flashed, and Mama’s face appeared, her headtie tied in a beautiful way that made her look like a queen.
“AkilaHyel, yarona [my boy]!” Mama cheered, her eyes crinkling with absolute joy.
“Look at you! You look so handsome! My handsome groom!”
“Mama, good morning,” I smiled.
“How is it going over there? I hope my wife is not crying about any thing this morning.”
“Ah! Don’t even go there,” Mama laughed, waving her hand dismissively.
“Your wife is looking like a beautiful angel. The makeup girl is just rounding up.”
“Let me see her, Ma,” I leaned closer to the screen.
“Just turn the camera for one second let me look at her face.”
Suddenly, a hand reached into the frame and snatched the phone. Mummy Idorenyin’s loving face appeared on the screen. She pinned me with a classic look that instantly told me I had no power here.
“Captain Akila,” Mrs. Idorenyin said, a wide, triumphant grin on her face.
“You are not allowed to see the bride before she walks down that aisle. It is a traditional law and it is final. Go and wait for her at the church like a gentleman. See you there!”
The line went completely dead before I could even open my mouth.
Effiom burst into a loud, booming laugh that echoed through the house, thumping me on the back.
“Lover boy, put your phone away let’s go. The driver is waiting.”
The church was a sight that made my chest tighten the moment our car pulled up. Because this was a marriage between a serving Captain and the daughter of a late Major General, the military presence was heavy.
A guard of honor stood at attention along the pathways, their ceremonial uniforms pristine under the sun. Senior officers from the Navy, Army, and Air Force were arriving in a steady stream of black SUVs, their gold braids and medals glinting in the light.
Our families from Adamawa and Akwa Ibom flooded the entrance in a sea of beautiful outfits.
When Effiom and I walked down the aisle to take our place at the altar, the church was already packed to the rafters. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfumes, fresh floral installations, and that heavy, reverent electricity that always precedes a monumental event.
Pastor Uzor was already standing behind the altar, wearing his pastoral robes, looking down at me with the warm, proud eyes of a father. I stood on the right side of the altar, my hands clasped loosely in front of me, trying to maintain my bearing while my heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird.
At exactly 10 minutes past 9am, the double doors at the very back of the church swung open.
The entire congregation stood up. The chatter died down instantly, replaced by a collective, breathless gasp that seemed to echo off the high rafters.
My babiessss
I could not fit the whole episode into one mail so the Final episode drops tomorrow!!
Ready yourselves oooo because you’ll cry.
Make sure you engage on this one to encouragement me post on time.
This guy's didn't play on their outfit😁
The two love birds are becoming one!
I've not read this but I know I'm gonna miss Akila and Soteria 😔❤️