02/09/2025
The Woman In The Green Scarf
I am Amaye.
I love to tie scarves to tame my thick 4c hair. Especially when they are so difficult to style. I generally like to get them in mini twists and wear wigs.
But weekends like this when I run errands, I tie silky scarves and it is now part of my weekend style.
But this weekend is different. I am officially 28 this Saturday morning. I am single, no talking stages, and a quiet resolution that, oh well, I am expiring, and there are two years left.
Unlike the years when I was happy to receive calls, I turned my phone off. Something is unsettling about the subtle and not-so-subtle ways my mum and family remind me that time is going and I am not yet married.
But will I marry myself?
Or will I propose to myself?
Does she think, I have seen someone remotely good and I refused to lock in?
These were the questions running through my mind as I strolled the beach that Saturday morning.
I liked going to the beach in the morning. The peace and the quiet. None of the brash songs and loud cheers.
Just some peace, quietness, and sound waves.
This morning, I am tying a green scarf.
It wasn’t flashy or extravagant—just a simple, emerald-green scarf given to me by my mum in passing, saying: “At least wear this so you look respectable.”
So I wrapped it around my hair, looked in the mirror this morning just before I left for the beach and whispered to my reflection.
“So, we made it. Twenty-eight. Still unmarried. Still breathing.”
The mirror didn’t flinch, didn’t judge. It never does. Sad that humans can never be like mirrors.
At exactly 12 pm, I went home. There was my mother at the door, a big cake in her hand.
“Mum, good afternoon,” I greeted trying to hide my displeasure. I had wanted a drama-free day.
“Nne, happy birthday o!” my mother’s voice chimed, all warmth at first.
“Thank you, Mum.”
A pause and a split second where she was trying to find her words.
“You know, your cousin Amara… she just gave birth last week. A bouncing baby boy. At 26. Time is running, Amaye. When will you give me something to celebrate?”
My chest tightened. I wanted to lash out badly. To ask her to be happy that I can pay for her life and that of my siblings. Isn't that something worth celebrating?
Instead, I said, “Mum, can’t you just say happy birthday without reminding me of my womb?”
The ensuing silence was uncomfortable.
“You sound ungrateful. Do you want to grow old alone? Do you want people to laugh at me that my daughter is roaming about—28 and still in her father’s house?”
“On the contrary Mum, I am not in my father's house. I rent this apartment and I pay for it. And today, I don't need this,” I replied.
She didn't say a word. Trust me when I say, that turning my phone on, the rest of the calls followed suit.
The quiet birthday I wanted was gone.
It was reeking of unsolicited advice and worse!
A surprise birthday dinner!
The birthday dinner was meant to be small. Just my family according to my mum. But in Nigerian households, “small” always stretched into something more. And soon my sitting room was a full village.
My aunt, glass of wine in hand, didn’t waste time.
“Nne, when are we eating rice on your head? You’re hiding yourself too much. Stop being too picky—marry whoever comes.”
My cousin Amara, fresh from childbirth and glowing with the smugness only motherhood seemed to bless women with, added:
“Honestly, sister, love is overrated. Just marry a good man. The feelings will come later. What’s important is family.”
I wished I could tell all of them to get the hell out of my house. But instead, I stabbed my fork into my food, forcing a smile. Trying to remain calm.
But that eluded me so I said, “And what if I don’t want later? What if I want more than survival? What if I want to be… happy?”
The table went quiet. My uncle cleared his throat.
“Happy? Happiness is for children. Marriage is a responsibility. You think too much.”
Something snapped inside of me, sharp and loud. I dropped my fork.
“No, Uncle. You don’t think enough. Happiness is not a luxury. If marriage doesn’t give me peace, it’s not worth it. Stop trying to convince me that suffering is noble just because you survived it.”
The silence after my words was volcanic. Plates froze mid-air. My mother’s face hardened. But I didn’t apologise. For the first time, I didn’t swallow her truth.
I simply grabbed my car keys and left.
I got home around 1 am. Everyone was gone except my mother. She didn't say a word. As soon as it was daybreak, she left.
Later that morning, my uncle called.
Uncle (booming): “Amaye! Now listen, my friend’s son just came back from London. A fine man. I will give him your number—”
Me (cutting in, firm): “No, Uncle. Not today. Please.”
A stunned silence followed.
Uncle (sharply): “You’re almost thirty, Amaye. Don’t be foolish. Women like you—time does not wait.”
My hand trembled, but my voice didn’t.
“Uncle, I’ve spent my whole life being told who to be, who to marry, how to exist. All of you ruined my birthday. Today is mine. Let me breathe. Let me choose. If love comes, it will come. But I will not beg for it like scraps. I’m not desperate. I’m not broken. I’m enough.”
Still, a week later, I let him be set up on a date—my mother’s insistence, my uncle’s pressure. His name was Chike. Investment Banker. Well-dressed. Polished smile.
At the restaurant, he leaned back, scanning me like merchandise.
Chike: “So, you’re twenty-eight. Why aren’t you married yet?”
I blinked. “Because I’m not.”
Chike (smirking): “Hmm. At your age, women are usually desperate. You must be hiding something.”
My hands shook around the wine glass.
So I said, “Or maybe I’m waiting for something that isn’t mediocre.”
The date ended in silence.
Another week goes by, and my friend Ngozi sets me up with a man. Henry! A fine man through and through.
He arrived at the café in a starched white kaftan, speaking like he was reading from a manual of expectations.
“So, tell me, can you cook? My mother insists I marry a woman who knows how to manage a household.”
I sipped my coffee, unimpressed and asked,
“Can you cook?”
He chuckled nervously.
“Ah-ah, that’s a woman’s duty now.”
I leaned in, my red scarf catching the dim light.
“If you want a maid, hire one. If you want a partner, then speak to me as an equal. Otherwise, finish your drink and let’s not waste each other’s time.”
His jaw dropped. The date ended in twenty minutes. I walked out lighter than when I came in.
At night when the doubts hit. I find myself asking.
Am I looking for too much?
Am I asking for the impossible?
I want love. Is it unrealistic at this age?
Should I settle?
Should I accept whatever to just be married?
It is not that I don't know that I have made the right decision. It is just that sometimes I wonder if, just what if goes wrong.
Two months after my birthday, I sat by the window of my apartment, journal in hand, the green scarf draped loosely over my shoulders.
I had just turned down meeting the third suitor. The way he had said a woman of my age should not miss the opportunity of marrying him had made me hang up.
Just now, his call kept buzzing in. And then a text,” You should be lucky, I even considered meeting up with you.”
I smiled. For the first time, I knew I was right.
For the first time I turned 28, and I felt like I belonged to myself.
Then Ngozi called. (He was her husband’s cousin)
“Babe, aren’t you scared you’ll regret all these choices?”
I smiled into the evening light.
“Ngozi, I’m more scared of regretting the life I didn’t live. If happiness makes me selfish, then so be it. I chose myself.”
Then I whispered to myself once more, softer this time, like a prayer:
“So, we made it. Twenty-eight. Unmarried. Alive. Happy.”
And for once, the mirror didn’t just reflect me. It agreed.
I am the woman in the green scarf. Whole. Happy. And Becoming.
