Smile" I hear My Mum whisper in my ears. 

I lean closer to her, placing my head on her shoulder.  She wraps her arm around me and pulls me closer, pecking my head. 

" Fear not, Hope. It's going to be fine" Her voice was just a whisper, yet so reassuring.

I look up at her. My eyes are filled with tears. I feel them flow down my cheeks. 

" Why does it have to be me, Mama?" I ask wanting so much to know why I had to bear this overwhelming cross. 

She looks at me and wipes my face with her palm. " Don't cry, my child…." 

" Why does it have to be me? Can't Amara or Uchechi or Beauty go? " I ask, this time trembling with anger. 

She sits silently staring at my face. 

" Why, Mama?" I ask almost in a bellow. 

She stirs from the trance she must have been in. Her hands shaking with tremors, her voice filled with emotions I had never seen in her before. 

She stares at me with deep brown eyes that match her chocolate skin. Her hair is thick, and black and touches her shoulders. Every morning she would plait them into little weaves. I noticed for the first time that morning that she had left her hair unkempt. The boubou she wore was the one she never wore out anymore. It had been her favourite for many years. My sisters and I had nicknamed it  " Royal Apparel". One day we woke up to find that she had removed it from the closet where she had always hung it and had placed it on the bathroom door.   The once treasured gown was now only worn in the bedroom she shared with my Father. She had turned it into her " Harmattan Nightie" only to be worn when the weather was cold. 

" It's perfect for keeping the cold away." She often said when we teased her about her sudden desire to retire her favourite gown. 

Today, she wore it as she sat with me on the balcony. I noticed that the fabric of the gown was faded. It looked like the rag we lay on the floor to wipe our feet on before we walked into the kitchen.  There is a small tear on the armpit. My Mum looks wretched and emotionally drained. I did not like the look. My Mum is so particular about her appearance. She would check and double-check her look in the standing mirror in her bedroom before she left the house. It felt strange to see her looking so distorted. She has always been our strength. I always thought of her as a Superwoman without the cape. 

" You have to go because he chose you to be his Bride. He has wanted you from the day he first laid his eyes on you."

" But I don't know him. Doesn't he know I am only seventeen? " I protest loudly. I see the heads of my sisters who are sitting on the steps of the balcony turn to stare at us. I sense not only their pity that this was happening to me but also their relief that it wasn't them that was being sent off to be married to a stranger because of a debt my father could not pay. 

Mum nods, looking so like a redneck lizard " I know. It's the appropriate age…." She begins to say. 

" What's appropriate about all of this?" I snap getting up from my seat in sudden rage " I am getting married to a man who I have never seen before only because he chose me as payment for a debt you owe him? I am giving up my dreams so yours can be realized. I have to be a bride whether I like it or not.  How can that be appropriate?" 

I see my reflection on the glass of the sliding door that leads to the sitting room. I am amazed at how beautiful I look. The long Ankara dress my Mum had allowed me to choose had been fashioned by one of the most popular fashion designers in Lagos. It had cost my dad a fortune to purchase it for me. I had been the envy of my elder sisters when the dress had been delivered to the house. Today, it felt like heavy armor worn by a warrior to his last battle. 

My makeup was flawless. My mum had shopped tenaciously for a Makeup Artist. She had finally chosen  Aunty Mimi to take up the task, instructing her on the look she wanted for me. 

"Don't overdo it, Mimi." Mum instructed " I want a natural, flawless look for my Bride" 

Aunty  Mimi delivered as she had promised. My face looked different. My dark chocolate skin glowed like diamond-studded jewellery. The makeup artist had insisted I wear a wig. The long bone straight wig sat on my head almost touching my waist. 

" Don't cry, Hope" Amara says " You will smear your makeup" 

In my frenzy, I had not noticed that she and my other sisters had walked from where they had been sitting to stand beside me and my mum. 

" Why should a smeared face matter when I have to give up all of my dreams to be married to this man whom I have never seen before? Doesn't that matter to any of you?" I throw back at her. 

" I would gladly go if I was chosen but I wasn't," Amara says with so much gusto I almost feel she is mocking me.

We all stand silently staring at each other. 

" I was a mail-order Bride once  too, you know." My mum said " I was fifteen when my dad sent me off to be married. I had dreams to go to school and become a teacher but my dad insisted. He owed Baba Cocoa a lot of money. Baba Cocoa was the richest man in the region. He was old, ugly, and had a belly the size of a drum" My mum laughed heartily " I was unwilling to go but my parents sent me off after many threats and coaxes. I went…." 

She paused, and sits silently, obviously lost in thoughts. 

" What happened when you got there?" Uchechi asked, stirring Mum back to reality.

" It was a trauma." She said, shaking her head from side to side as if she wanted to shake off the memories from her mind " He was vicious…Baba Cocoa… He would beat me like a cow with whips for I was stubborn. I would defy him at every turn. I wasn't a submissive wife. I wasn't as beautiful as his wife who had died. He would rant and rave and I would defy him further. It became a game for us until one day…." 

We wait for her to continue. 

" And?" I ask touching her arm

" One day he told me he had fallen in love with me. He was on his knees begging for my love. I was the kind of woman he wanted. Could I try to love him too? He asked. He would give me anything I wanted. I looked at this old tyrant. I saw for the first time, a man who wanted love and wanted to give love. I accepted his offer." She paused " We were so happy it was crazy " She chuckles sheepishly "He died a few months later. I was free but I was unhappy. I had lost the one man who loved and accepted me the way I was. I married your father a year after" 

I want to ask if she was happy with my father. My father was a man who believed a woman's voice should not be heard. He would snap at my mum at the slightest provocation.  

" You are just a fool, " He would shout " foolish and ugly… " 

My mum never responded.  She would sit there looking like a woman in a trance.  She would often brush his hurtful words away as if they were specks of dirt on her sleeves. 

Mum was never one who could raise her voice. She always spoke her words softly even when she was angry. The night my dad had gathered us all to tell us of my marriage to a stranger,  she had sat there staring into space like she often did. She didn't shout at him or tell him all of this was wrong. While I screamed in defiance that I would be sold off like a pig to the highest bidder,  my mum had not uttered a word. 

Later as I lay in my room crying,  she came in and consoled me, crying with me and my sisters. 

The blare of a car horn distracts us all. We see the gateman run to the gate and open it. An expensive-looking Mercedes Benz Jeep drives into the compound and parks in our driveway. Its driver, a young man in his thirties, opens the door and gets down.

" Good day" He greets us smiling " I am here to pick our Bride" 

My sisters stare at me. I stare back. There is so much tension in the air. 

" You are strong like your mother. You will stand on your own two feet whether the situation over there is good or bad. You can not break in the place of pressure, my Hope. " Mum says to me.

She hugs me tight. My sisters join in for a group hug. We disband giggling like little children. 

My mum wipes my tears and leads me to the car. I get in and the door is shut and I am hit with cool air from the air conditioner. The driver gets in and clears his throat. He drives off. 

I am tempted to look back but I do not. I sit back running my hands on the leather upholstery of the luxury car. Like my mum, it looked like I was marrying a man with affluence and wealth who also had great taste in cars. 

Money won't be a problem then. I thought. I will try to convince him that I want to go to school and get a degree. Perhaps he would listen. 

We drive from the mainland of Lagos into the Island, crossing the Third Mainland Bridge. For some unusual reason, the roads of Lagos are free of traffic and this suits me fine. The quicker I  get this over with, the better for me. 

We finally arrive at the big mansion that belongs to Cheif Ayotunde Adio. I swallow as the gate opens. We drive in. 

The compound is ten times bigger than any I have ever seen. A white edifice stands before us. We drive past well-tended lawns and gardens.  I am amazed by the level of wealth. I had only seen this standard of luxury on television. 

My heart beats so fast I feel weak suddenly. 

We park in the driveway. The door opens even before the driver gets down. I look up and see him. He looks younger than I had imagined. 

He holds out his hand to me. " Hope, welcome to my world, my beautiful Mail Order Bride," He says in the deepest baritone I had ever heard, with a broad grin on his handsome face. 

I look up at him smiling shyly, thanking God he didn't have a pot belly the size of a drum. 

I give him my hand. As we touch, I feel a spark within me. I recoil, pulling back my hand. I look at him and see surprise in his eyes. He has a knowing smile on his face. He had felt it too. 

We stare at each other for a moment. He stretched forth his hands again. I take it without delay knowing I could trust this stranger, who is my husband.

As  I get out of the car and walked with him hand in hand, up the stairs to be introduced to his waiting family and friends, I realised that le" I hear My Mum whisper in my ears. 
I lean closer to her, placing my head on her shoulder. She wraps her arm around me and pulls me closer, pecking my head. 
" Fear not, Hope. It's going to be fine" Her voice was just a whisper, yet so reassuring.
I look up at her. My eyes are filled with tears. I feel them flow down my cheeks. 
" Why does it have to be me, Mama?" I ask wanting so much to know why I had to bear this overwhelming cross. 
She looks at me and wipes my face with her palm. " Don't cry, my child…." 
" Why does it have to be me? Can't Amara or Uchechi or Beauty go? " I ask, this time trembling with anger. 
She sits silently staring at my face. 
" Why, Mama?" I ask almost in a bellow. 
She stirs from the trance she must have been in. Her hands shaking with tremors, her voice filled with emotions I had never seen in her before. 
She stares at me with deep brown eyes that match her chocolate skin. Her hair is thick, and black and touches her shoulders. Every morning she would plait them into little weaves. I noticed for the first time that morning that she had left her hair unkempt. The boubou she wore was the one she never wore out anymore. It had been her favourite for many years. My sisters and I had nicknamed it " Royal Apparel". One day we woke up to find that she had removed it from the closet where she had always hung it and had placed it on the bathroom door. The once treasured gown was now only worn in the bedroom she shared with my Father. She had turned it into her " Harmattan Nightie" only to be worn when the weather was cold. 
" It's perfect for keeping the cold away." She often said when we teased her about her sudden desire to retire her favourite gown. 
Today, she wore it as she sat with me on the balcony. I noticed that the fabric of the gown was faded. It looked like the rag we lay on the floor to wipe our feet on before we walked into the kitchen. There is a small tear on the armpit. My Mum looks wretched and emotionally drained. I did not like the look. My Mum is so particular about her appearance. She would check and double-check her look in the standing mirror in her bedroom before she left the house. It felt strange to see her looking so distorted. She has always been our strength. I always thought of her as a Superwoman without the cape. 
" You have to go because he chose you to be his Bride. He has wanted you from the day he first laid his eyes on you."
" But I don't know him. Doesn't he know I am only seventeen? " I protest loudly. I see the heads of my sisters who are sitting on the steps of the balcony turn to stare at us. I sense not only their pity that this was happening to me but also their relief that it wasn't them that was being sent off to be married to a stranger because of a debt my father could not pay. 
Mum nods, looking so like a redneck lizard " I know. It's the appropriate age…." She begins to say. 
" What's appropriate about all of this?" I snap getting up from my seat in sudden rage " I am getting married to a man who I have never seen before only because he chose me as payment for a debt you owe him? I am giving up my dreams so yours can be realized. I have to be a bride whether I like it or not. How can that be appropriate?" 
I see my reflection on the glass of the sliding door that leads to the sitting room. I am amazed at how beautiful I look. The long Ankara dress my Mum had allowed me to choose had been fashioned by one of the most popular fashion designers in Lagos. It had cost my dad a fortune to purchase it for me. I had been the envy of my elder sisters when the dress had been delivered to the house. Today, it felt like heavy armor worn by a warrior to his last battle. 
My makeup was flawless. My mum had shopped tenaciously for a Makeup Artist. She had finally chosen Aunty Mimi to take up the task, instructing her on the look she wanted for me. 
"Don't overdo it, Mimi." Mum instructed " I want a natural, flawless look for my Bride" 
Aunty Mimi delivered as she had promised. My face looked different. My dark chocolate skin glowed like diamond-studded jewelry. The makeup artist had insisted I wear a wig. The long bone straight wig sat on my head almost touching my waist. 
" Don't cry, Hope" Amara says " You will smear your makeup" 
In my frenzy, I had not noticed that she and my other sisters had walked from where they had been sitting to stand beside me and my mum. 
" Why should a smeared face matter when I have to give up all of my dreams to be married to this man whom I have never seen before? Doesn't that matter to any of you?" I throw back at her. 
" I would gladly go if I was chosen but I wasn't," Amara says with so much gusto I almost feel she is mocking me.
We all stand silently staring at each other. 
" I was a mail-order Bride once too, you know." My mum said " I was fifteen when my dad sent me off to be married. I had dreams to go to school and become a teacher but my dad insisted. He owed Baba Cocoa a lot of money. Baba Cocoa was the richest man in the region. He was old, ugly, and had a belly the size of a drum" My mum laughed heartily " I was unwilling to go but my parents sent me off after many threats and coaxes. I went…." She paused, and sat silently, obviously lost in thoughts. 
" What happened when you got there?" Uchechi asked, stirring Mum back to reality.
" It was a trauma." She said, shaking her head from side to side as if she wanted to shake off the memories from her mind " He was vicious…Baba Cocoa… He would beat me like a cow with whips for I was stubborn. I would defy him at every turn. I wasn't a submissive wife. I wasn't as beautiful as his wife who had died. He would rant and rave and I would defy him further. It became a game for us until one day…." 
We wait for her to continue. 
" And?" I ask touching her arm
" One day he told me he had fallen in love with me. He was on his knees begging for my love. I was the kind of woman he wanted. Could I try to love him too? He asked. He would give me anything I wanted. I looked at this old tyrant. I saw for the first time, a man who wanted love and wanted to give love. I accepted his offer." She paused " We were so happy it was crazy " She chuckles sheepishly "He died a few months later. I was free but I was unhappy. I had lost the one man who loved and accepted me the way I was. I married your father a year after" 
I want to ask if she was happy with my father. My father was a man who believed a woman's voice should not be heard. He would snap at my mum at the slightest provocation.  
" You are just a fool, " He would shout " foolish and ugly… " 
My mum never responded. She would sit there looking like a woman in a trance. She would often brush his hurtful words away as if they were specks of dirt on her sleeves. 
Mum was never one who could raise her voice. She always spoke her words softly even when she was angry. The night my dad had gathered us all to tell us of my marriage to a stranger, she had sat there staring into space like she often did. She didn't shout at him or tell him all of this was wrong. While I screamed in defiance that I would be sold off like a pig to the highest bidder, my mum had not uttered a word. 
Later as I lay in my room crying, she came in and consoled me, crying with me and my sisters. 
The blare of a car horn distracts us all. We see the gateman run to the gate and open it. An expensive-looking Mercedes Benz Jeep drives into the compound and parks in our driveway. Its driver, a young man in his thirties, opens the door and gets down.
" Good day" He greets us smiling " I am here to pick our Bride" 
My sisters stare at me. I stare back. There is so much tension in the air. 
" You are strong like your mother. You will stand on your own two feet whether the situation over there is good or bad. You can not break in the place of pressure, my Hope. " Mum says to me.
She hugs me tight. My sisters join in for a group hug. We disband giggling like little children. 
My mum wipes my tears and leads me to the car. I get in and the door is shut and I am hit with cool air from the air conditioner. The driver gets in and clears his throat. He drives off. 
I am tempted to look back but I do not. I sit back running my hands on the leather upholstery of the luxury car. Like my mum, it looked like I was marrying a man with affluence and wealth who also had great taste in cars. 
Money won't be a problem then. I thought. I will try to convince him that I want to go to school and get a degree. Perhaps he would listen. 
We drive from the mainland of Lagos into the Island, crossing the Third Mainland Bridge. For some unusual reason, the roads of Lagos are free of traffic and this suits me fine. The quicker I get this over with, the better for me. 
We finally arrive at the big mansion that belongs to Cheif Ayotunde Adio. I swallow as the gate opens. We drive in. 
The compound is ten times bigger than any I have ever seen. A white edifice stands before us. We drive past well-tended lawns and gardens. I am amazed by the level of wealth. I had only seen this standard of luxury on television. 
My heart beats so fast I feel weak suddenly. 
We park in the driveway. The door opens even before the driver gets down. I look up and see him. He looks younger than I had imagined. 
He holds out his hand to me. " Hope, welcome to my world, my beautiful Mail Order Bride," He says in the deepest baritone I had ever heard, with a broad grin on his handsome face. 
I look up at him smiling shyly, thanking God he didn't have a pot belly the size of a drum. 
I give him my hand. As we touch, I feel a spark within me. I recoil, pulling back my hand. I look at him and see surprise in his eyes. He has a knowing smile on his face. He had felt it too. 
We stare at each other for a moment. He stretched forth his hands again. I take it without delay knowing I could trust this stranger, who is my husband.
As I got out of the car and walked with his hand in hand, up the stairs to be introduced to his waiting family and friends, I realised that I was no longer afraid.