Wrappers and War Drums

A mother slaps and flogs her in-law with a broom during her daughter’s wedding intro.

In Nigeria, weddings were never just weddings. They were arenas where pride wrestled pride, where every smile could hide a sharpened insult, and where a simple ceremony could become a battlefield. Adaora’s introduction was supposed to unite two families, but it became the day her mother’s wrapper and a broom changed everything.
The compound was alive from morning. Women carried steaming coolers of jollof rice, fried plantain, and goat pepper soup into the kitchen, their laughter mingling with the aroma of food. Men dragged plastic chairs beneath white canopies, arguing about politics and football, while children chased one another between tables, only to be threatened by aunties wielding wooden spoons. The DJ tested his speakers with highlife songs so loud that neighbors drifted toward the gate, pretending to greet but staying, knowing food and drama would spill outward eventually.
Inside the parlor, Adaora sat like a queen. Her wine-colored lace shimmered, her coral beads hung heavy, her gele stood proudly. She smiled when people looked at her, but her fan moved too quickly in her hand. Beside her sat Chuka, her fiancé, a handkerchief glued to his forehead as sweat rolled down. He nodded at every joke but looked more like a man facing trial than one about to celebrate. In the corner sat Mama Nneka, Adaora’s mother. Her wrapper was tied firmly, her eyes steady, her silence sharp. Life had not left her soft; she had raised five children alone after her husband’s death. Her silence was not peace; it was a warning.
Then came Madam Felicia. She arrived in glittering blue lace, gold jewelry weighing down her wrists, her perfume claiming the room before she even spoke. People whispered her name as she passed. Everyone knew Felicia, the sharp-tongued trader who had clawed her way into wealth, a woman who did not easily bend. She had not wanted her only son to marry Adaora. In her eyes, the girl came from a family too ordinary, a widow’s household without the prestige she craved. But Chuka had insisted, and so here she was, seated with people she considered beneath her.
Her first words came smoothly, like casual talk. “Some women really don’t know how to raise children,” she said, her voice cutting easily across the room. “That’s why their daughters are so desperate to marry quickly.”
Conversations stilled. A spoon clinked too loudly against a plate. All eyes turned toward Mama Nneka. She smiled, wide and calm, but her children recognized it. That smile was not patience. It was a fire held back. Adaora leaned close, whispering, “Mummy, please, ignore her.” Mama only kept smiling.
Felicia leaned back in her chair, emboldened by the silence. She glanced at the food table where children were already circling like hawks. She shook her head, laughing lightly. “Some families don’t have class. See how they rush food, as if they haven’t eaten since last year.”
The air turned heavy. The MC stuttered through a weak joke, but nobody laughed. Chuka lowered his eyes, shame flickering across his face. It was then that Mama rose.
Her movements were slow, deliberate. She adjusted her wrapper, tugging it firmly into place, the way women did before carrying something heavy. To outsiders, it seemed like nothing. But to her children, it was a sign. The storm had come.
She crossed the room in three steps and struck. The slap landed so hard it silenced the parlor. The DJ’s music outside stuttered, the generator faltered, and even the baby crying in the corner stopped in shock. Felicia’s head snapped to the side, her gold earrings trembling.
“You dare insult me in my daughter’s house?” Mama’s voice rang out.
Before Felicia could respond, Mama yanked at her lace wrapper and dragged her forward. With her other hand, she seized the broom resting against the wall. The flogging began. It was not wild, it was deliberate, each stroke carrying the weight of years.
“You insult me?” Whack.
“You disgrace my family?” Whack.
“On my daughter’s day?” Whack.
Felicia shrieked, writhing, clawing to escape, but Mama held her like a market woman restraining a goat. Chuka half-rose, then froze, torn between his mother and his bride’s family. Sweat streamed down his temple as he sank back, helpless. Elders called for peace but stepped carefully, ducking stray strokes. Guests covered their mouths, horrified yet amused. “This is better than Africa Magic,” someone whispered.
“Help me!” Felicia cried desperately.
“Nobody will help you until I finish resetting your mouth!” Mama shouted, her broom falling again.
At last, two elders managed to grab Mama’s arms and drag her back. She stood tall, chest rising and falling, her wrapper loosened. Slowly, she adjusted it, smoothed her blouse, and raised her chin high. Her voice was steady as stone. “Next time, before you use your tongue to scatter another woman’s house, count your teeth first. Make sure you have enough to pay for the words.”
Then she turned and returned to her chair with the composure of a soldier leaving a battlefield.
The room was silent. Felicia sat slumped, her gele on the floor, her makeup streaked like paint in the rain, her pride stripped. Chuka stared at the ground, trapped between blood and marriage. Adaora sat frozen, fan still in her lap, eyes wide with disbelief.
The ceremony limped forward, but it had lost its soul. The vows were spoken softly, as if everyone feared the air might crack again. The MC’s voice had lost its rhythm, his jokes were flat, and even the food seemed tasteless when finally served.
When the guests left, the story left with them, spilling into the neighborhood and beyond. For weeks, the street buzzed with gossip. Some told it with shock, others with admiration. Some said Mama had disgraced herself; others swore she had defended her family’s honor. But all agreed on one thing: nobody who was there would ever forget.
And though Adaora and Chuka went on with their marriage, though elders tried to smooth things over in private meetings, the story never died. Whenever Felicia entered a room afterward, eyes flicked toward Mama instinctively, as though bracing for another storm.
Nobody remembered the jollof rice, the speeches, or even the vows. What endured was the slap, the broom, and the day when two women clashed and only one walked away unbowed.
Because in Nigeria, weddings were not just about love. They were about survival, respect, and the wars fought beneath the lace.