Meeting Someone New

This is the last point on the list of things that happen to ‘A Woman of A Certain Age’ (definition: a single woman who has turned 30.)

This last point was the most important part of the whole experience; it was the part when I met ‘someone new’.

No, not Mr Right (if at all he exists)…the ‘someone new’ was…ME!

Yep, moi. I’d changed in so many ways since my last significant birthday (25) that it was like meeting a stranger.

I had slowly become less and less concerned about what others thought of me. I accepted it was OK to be who I am because I realized I’m not good at being anybody else.
I had every right to be as silly, playful, introverted or moody as I pleased and it took turning thirty to believe that. Wow. It was a significant discovery after a significant birthday.

There are several significant birthdays in one’s life. Your first birthday is naturally the most important, though if you’re Nigerian it’s actually not your Big Day. It’s your parents’, and there’s nothing you can do about it cos you’re only three hundred and sixty five days old, remember?

Nigerian parents hijack your first birthday party by: (1) inviting all their friends (2) including their friends’ children that are much older than you on the guest list (3) hiring ugly clowns to entertain the abovementioned friends’ children; clowns who end up frightening the piss out of you, the birthday kid (4) ordering spicy food you can’t eat because you’re still being weaned and (5) changing your clothes every thirty minutes so you can pose for pictures.

Aunts and uncles also ruin the day for you by passing you from hand to hand while referring to you as ‘the celebrant’ when in fact you’re in no mood to celebrate anything. “It’s my turn to carry the celebrant!” “Where’s the celebrant?” “Bring the celebrant!”
Naturally, you spend the whole day weeping and wailing because you’re hungry (your mum is busy running around so she doesn’t remember to feed you) scared (those clowns! aargh!) and confused (the noisy music & bright lights from the cameras.)

If you’re Nigerian, photo after photo from your first birthday will show you beautifully dressed, carried by your beaming mother with your mouth wide open (mid-wail) your eyes tightly shut (the bright lights) and a concave stomach (hungry in the midst of so much food.)

The next significant birthday is your fifth. By this time you are old enough to eat all the spicy food available, refuse to change your clothes for photos and throw cake at those ugly clowns.

At ten your birthday photos show you with long spindly legs, glasses and braces. At thirteen you’re finally a teenager! And still your birthday photos show you with long spindly legs, glasses and braces. At fifteen no one remembered to have a party for you but if they had, your photos would’ve shown you with yep, the same legs and glasses though the braces were finally gone.

At eighteen…still no party, probably because your parents are in denial about your obvious maturity. So your friends throw a party for you and your photos show all the girls with too much make up and all the guys staring at the swelling bosoms of the girls with too much make up. Twenty one flies by, you’re lucky if, as a Nigerian, you get more than a “happy birthday” and a card. (Parents seem to lose the zeal to throw parties after you turn thirteen)

When twenty five rolls around you’re old enough and solvent enough to throw yourself a party just the way you want it – no family members, just friends, drinks, cake and slow dancing. Then. You. Hit. Thirty.

If you’re married, hubby throws a party and invites all his friends.

If you’re not, you meet ‘someone new’...