#1: The Funeral Of a Name.

i attended my own funeral last saturday. the hall smelled of lilies and expensive perfume, with something heavier hiding beneath them both. white flowers climbed the walls. everyone was dressed in black.not mourning black.aso ebi black.the kind that had been chosen months ago, tailored to perfection, worn with matching shoes, jewellery and smiles that would soon live forever in framed photographs. i was the only one in white. women hugged me gently.the way people hug someone who has just lost something they can never get back. "she'll never be the same."someone whispered into my hair. an older aunt squeezed my hands."today," she smiled."everything changes." i smiled back because everyone else was smiling.but somewhere inside me...i wondered if ghosts got to choose their outfits.for one unsettling moment... i genuinely wondered whether i had died and no one had thought to mention it. then the doors opened. the hall erupted. the compère called our names with so much excitement you'd think he was introducing the deceased. people rose to their feet. the dj interrupted himself halfway through one song just to begin another. women danced toward me, spraying crisp naira notes across my forehead while photographers circled us like they were afraid history might happen without them. someone adjusted the white dress i'd changed into not long before. someone else reminded me to smile. another person pulled me into another photograph.another portrait for the obituary, i thought.ghosts probably don't get tired of smiling. "congratulations!"the word followed me from table to table."congratulations!"again.and again.strange.i thought funerals sounded different. people kept stopping me."you belong to another family now.""your husband's home is your home.""a good wife sacrifices.""marriage changes everything.""family first."everyone seemed to have already decided what kind of wife i should become.all that was left was for me to memorize the script.every sentence landed like another shovel of earth. then someone finally said it."welcome, mrs. adebayo."another handful of soil.<img src="/media/inline_insight_image/file_00000000cc08824680b1999e37771485.png"/> i smiled.what else do you do at your own funeral? notice what nobody asked.nobody asked if i still wanted to finish my masters.nobody asked about the dreams i'd spent years building.nobody asked who i was before everyone else decided who i should become.they weren't trying to erase me with a name.they were trying to erase me with a script. hours later, the celebration finally began to thin.chairs scraped against tiled floors.children chased one another between parked cars.older women exchanged leftovers into takeaway bowls.people sang and danced as they escorted us toward the car.the way people accompany something precious before letting it go. just before i stepped inside...i felt someone tug gently at my dress.i turned.a little girl looked up at me."aunty tolu..."she hesitated."...are you happy?" and for the first time all day...i forgot to pretend.i smiled.because someone had remembered my name. inside the car, my husband reached for my hand.he smiled quietly.the kind of smile that says,we made it.i looked at him.then it struck me.he had never asked me to stop being tolu.not once.everyone else had. it wasn't a funeral.it was my wedding reception.the church wedding had ended that morning.the vows had been exchanged.the register had been signed.our first kiss as husband and wife had been applauded.everyone had gathered to celebrate the beginning of our marriage.but all day...i had felt like they were preparing me for a different ceremony entirely.not the burial of my body.the burial of every part of me that didn't fit the version of a wife they had already imagined. love changes people.it should.but becoming someone's wife shouldn't mean becoming someone else.i didn't lose tolu that day.i simply became mrs. adebayo too.one didn't have to bury the other.. ---p.s. before anyone asks—no, i'm not married. 😄this story was born from one of those stubborn "what if..." thoughts that refused to leave me alone.as an ambitious young woman, i've often wondered what it would feel like to step into marriage while carrying dreams, purpose and a growing sense of identity. this isn't a story against marriage.or against taking a husband's name.far from it... if anything, it's a story in honour of the kind of love that makes room for growth without demanding the burial of identity. because i hope that when my own wedding day comes...i'll leave with another name.not without myself.

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