11/09/2025
The day my mother flogged my sister’s mother-in-law during the introduction is the day I realized that wedding ceremonies in Nigeria are not for the fainthearted. Forget all those movies where families smile, exchange kola nut, and say sweet things, real life is a different story, and that day proved it.
Everything started peacefully. The house was decorated, chairs were lined up, rice and stew aroma was filling the air, and the DJ was already testing the speakers with “Sweet Mother.” Everyone was pretending to be one big happy family. My sister was dressed like a queen, her husband-to-be was busy sweating even though the fan was blowing, and my mother was seated like a lioness, watching everything closely.
But in every gathering, there must be somebody that cannot keep quiet. That role, unfortunately, belonged to my sister’s mother-in-law. She started with small, calculated insults that she thought no one would catch. She looked around, smiled, and said, “Some women really don’t know how to raise their children. That’s why their daughters are desperate to marry quickly.”
I swear, the hall went cold. Everybody heard it, but nobody wanted to react. My mother smiled politely, but I could see the fire already dancing in her eyes. If you know Nigerian mothers, you know that once they smile too much, thunder is about to strike.
A few minutes later, the woman added another peppery statement: “Some people don’t have class. See how some families rush food at events as if they’ve been starving since last year.” That was it. That was the moment. My sister grabbed my mother’s hand, whispering, “Mummy, please calm down, it’s just talk.” But who was she fooling? You cannot tell a volcano not to erupt when the magma is already boiling.
My mother stood up slowly. She adjusted her wrapper and tied it firmly, like a wrestler preparing for a royal rumble. That single act made some people suspicious. The MC thought she wanted to dance. My sister thought she was just stretching. But I knew. Oh, I knew. The battle line had been drawn.
Before anyone could blink, my mother marched forward like a soldier and, kpaaaaah! landed one hot slap on the woman’s face. The sound was louder than the DJ’s speakers. The microphone fell silent, even the generator seemed to stammer for a second. All conversations stopped. People’s spoons froze halfway to their mouths. Even the baby crying in the corner suddenly respected herself and kept quiet.
But my mother was just warming up. She grabbed the woman by her expensive lace wrapper, pulled her forward, and the flogging began. She didn’t come empty-handed; no, my mother was a professional. She picked up a broom resting by the corner and began to use it like a certified disciplinarian. She flogged her on the back, the arms, everywhere reachable. “You insult me? You insult me at my daughter’s introduction?!” she shouted between strikes.
The woman screamed, struggled, and tried to run, but my mother held her tight like a stubborn goat at the market. My sister’s husband didn’t know whether to separate them or to vanish, so he just stood there scratching his head like NEPA light that just tripped. The MC kept shouting “Please, let there be peace!” but his microphone had already given up. The elders jumped up, trying to intervene, but even they were dodging broom strokes.
The beating was not ordinary. It was a spiritual, generational, ancestral type of flogging. My mother used everything around her, her head tie, her bare hands, even a plastic chair tried to join the fight. At one point, the woman screamed, “Help me!” and my mother shouted back, “Nobody will help you until I finish resetting your brain!”
The guests were torn between shock and enjoyment. Some were pretending to separate them but were laughing behind handkerchiefs. One woman whispered to her neighbor, “This is better than African Magic.” Truly, no Nollywood director could have scripted that drama better.
After what felt like a lifetime, the elders finally pulled my mother back. She adjusted her wrapper again, stood tall, and declared, “Next time, if you want to insult me, check your teeth first before you use them to scatter your future!” Then she marched back to her chair with the dignity of a general who had just won a battle.
The other woman’s gele was on the floor, her makeup had shifted, and her pride was bruised beyond repair. The introduction that was supposed to unite two families ended up becoming a WWE SmackDown event. But deep down, everybody knew one thing: my mother had delivered justice.
To this day, whenever people mention that introduction, nobody remembers the rice, nobody remembers the music, nobody even remembers the vows exchanged. What everybody remembers is the beating, the unforgettable flogging that shook two families and left an entire street talking for weeks.
And honestly? If you ask me, that day was worth every broomstroke.
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