The Sun was setting and my wife was still sitting on a mat in her grandmother’s yard. I felt like I was waiting for her to be released from punishment—like she had done something wrong by marrying this Yoruba man from Nigeria. Half of the customs were strange to me and I had no idea they were going to happen. For what it was worth, she had tried to teach me about all the things that would be done and I had no qualms, after all I am Yoruba and we also have symbolic events at our weddings.

A lot of words had been said and prayers made. Yet, there were some words that should never have been said and decisions that made me start to understand that being a man is something you choose—it is not given nor should you expect such a gift, especially from your wedding.

I was scared though and at that point could feel my eyes burning from some allergic reaction I had. We had hosted my parents with their Pastor friend. You can imagine the conversations that happened as a result. They probably wanted to be sure this was the will of God, if I knew what I was getting into, had I sought God’s approval?

In hindsight, I think that couples like us should desperately seek allies in and outside of faith. People who did more praying and supporting than questioning and sowing seeds of doubt. Given all the weird ASF (forgive my language) content and stories we had to listen to in that time, I felt no sense of encouragement. I surely felt skepticism, doubt, fear, and despair, all of which I do not believe are of God.

If anything were to happen to my marriage, it would be because my wife and I talk about even the most mundane things with the most intensity, are learning to self-regulate, and taking just the right amount of time to learn each other’s odd buttons. It will not be because, “I knew they wouldn’t last long”. We’ve waded through murky waters, learned lessons, and are still learning how to treat ourselves better than our upbringing.

While Tumi was sitting in the yard and the community was bidding her farewell, my heart was heavy with pity for us. I looked around and couldn’t find all my friends. Most that came for us, lovely people, truly sacrificial friends, had gone home. I felt like crying but I had to be a man like I have been my whole life, having heard people stop me from crying, talking, being upset, never validated.

If you going into a marriage never having had someone say, “I see you, I hear you, and you are right to feel that way,” please find therapy or guidance, cause you will hurt some more, soon enough.

I did not know what it meant, up till that moment, for an adult to see all your emotions and rally to you, cover you, and make you feel like you matter. It didn’t matter to me anymore though, I was taking home my wife.

At some point, I started asking anyone I could why my wife was still sitting in the yard and if it wasn’t yet time for us to leave so they can drop us off at home in Pretoria.

After what felt like eternity, relatives climbed into cars, doors slammed shut, gifts were packed, and an entourage headed to Pretoria. I would cursorily glance at my phone, and then check out my wife—she was exhausted and so was I. Yet, there were things that needed to be done still.

In my head I was thinking, “Daddy please do this one thing for me, keep that meat for us. It means a lot to us right now.” There was meat shared from the wedding, as tradition dictated. When you pay a dowry, the families slaughter a cow and a goat. Some would slaughter more than that. However, they would also keep a half portion of the meat for the groom’s family.

After all the expenses that had been incurred, dowry, flight costs for parents, remaking our dresses multiple times, lawyers fees for antenuptials, traveling to Nigeria, the court wedding, and so many millions gone from my savings, we had plans for that meat. I was exhausted physically, emotionally and financially. It was going to be the little gift I could give our friends who came all out for us. Some of it would also sustain us for the next few months, or so I thought.

I had heard stories from the Pastor hosting my parents about how “fetish” South Africans can be. The meat obviously seemed fetish to them and so it had to be cleansed or something of the sort. I asked my father to not let anything happen to that meat, and that I would come get it first thing in the morning. By morning, several kilograms of meat had been boiled without our knowledge. I was too exhausted to care anymore so I refused the meat, anyone who knows South Africa would know how folks like to braai their meat. The plan was to give people a choice to do whatever they pleased with the meat they got. I underestimated how alien the concept of choice is to my people, especially as it often costs more to allow people any choice at all. Is this how a man must make decisions? Should he choose convenience over people’s choices? That plan was out the window and so was my need to trust or have faith in any family except my new home.

My “egbon”, a friend who served as best man and guardian throughout the process had not yet left for home because he wanted to be sure we got back home safely. My heart was filled with gratitude, pain and anxiety.

Earlier that day, we all got dressed in burgundy-themed Yoruba attires. My parents, who had travelled all the way from Osogbo to South Africa ushered us to the venue. We sat in small anteroom and received guests—a few of my friends, and some folks I had never met before that day but who were known to my parents. I was working on that day, just a little bit—freelance jobs and PhD deadlines have no regard for your need to get hitched.

At the time someone from the grooms family had to receive the bride, I thought it would be obvious who would do this for us—my friend and brother who had helped with all the Magadi negotiations, who had braved every trip, and walked several of the miles with my wife and I. However, I later heard that my parents had appointed some remotely distant relative, whom I had no inkling that he lived in the same city, and had terrible history with his sister who was our school matron. For me, since I read the adoption story of Christ into the household of David that fulfilled the prophesy of salvation, my paradigm on family shifted.

I believe that to be a man, you must choose your family. Yes, we have no say in our birthplace, upbringing, and history. Yet, to be a man, you must have the capacity to choose the family that accompanies you towards purpose and destiny. Like Jesus said to his listeners once, “my brothers and mother are these ones”, referring to his disciples when someone told him is family was looking for him. We have family by blood but God also provides room for us to select and choose how we wish to live our lives. Those who honor you on your day of honor, have earned the respect of a family.

I know that decisions are always tough to make and that a lot is often considered in making them. Yet, I thought that being a man now meant that I could make calls about my wedding, as it should be. Yet, I do not know any tradition that infantilizes adults the most than weddings. Everyone seems to have more insight than you do about how to build a successful home. If only you listen to them, and be more cooperative, your home might be happy.

It’s been two years since, my home has been blessed with a child, we have our fair share of troubles, but not the kind of troubles that would destroy us. It is symbolic to me that a culture that does not honor you on your day of “ascension” is not designed to honor you on any day at all.

When I speak about culture, I am not just talking about the Yoruba and Sepedi cultures. I am talking about the culture of our homes, families, and the friends that show up on our special days. If we’ve honored the wishes of a crowd over our children, all their lives, it will be the culture of the wedding we celebrate. Many mistakes in life happen by virtue of limited knowledge. People hurt in marriages because there are two different adults raised in multiple different cultures.

However, your wedding is a beautiful scene to start to see the battles you and your partner might carry with you.

One of the days after the wedding when I asked my parents why my wishes could not be respected at my wedding, my wife being on the call, they asked, “who are you?” Though it was a demoralizing question to hear in that time, I think it made me wake up to finding an answer to that. Who am I really? Am I a man who’s loved, honoured, and regarded by the people I have surrounded myself with? Have I truly made choices that honour who I am?

At this point, I was 31 years old and in my final years of a PhD. I was eating from my own pot, pissing in my own toilet, and sleeping in my own bed. I was the man who would deny himself of flashy things so that he could wed his friend—fight through the systemic barriers to marrying a South African woman, and still get a wedding that looked barely like what he desired. Surely, the wedding you get is hardly the one you planned, but even the meat doesn’t escape the chaos?

Our wedding photos were spectacular, food was surplus, prayers were muttered, disagreements festered, no different from most weddings, lessons were learned.

So, I am still on that journey to discovering who I am now, whether I am what you’d call a man, or not.