Why didn’t anyone tell me that to find a husband all I had to do was join the sanitation department at church? Why did they let me spend my late twenties hopping from wedding to wedding, winning the prize for being the overall best in being a bridesmaid, confetti lady and aso-ebi girl kakiri in the hopes of meeting an eligible groomsman or guest who would be the one?
Why did they let me join all the dating apps available on Play Store and App Store? Please don’t tell them at church I said this.
Why did they let me waste my money (my pocket still cries at the thought of the aso-ebi I bought for Jumoke’s wedding), my time (I’m resisting the urge to say thunder fire all the time-wasters on those apps), and my energy (catching bouquet is not for the weak o)?
I could have just stayed in church and joined the sanitation department jejely. What I was looking for in Sokoto is apparently in my ṣokoto.
Pastor Timilehin announces, “Ahnahn, this is the ninth wedding from the sanitation department this year.”
Tenth actually, sir.
“Church, celebrate the Lord.”
The congregation hoots and cheers and claps. I join them, counting all the sanitation department weddings over the years.
Omo, na them dey marry pass o. Why didn’t I see it all this while?
“This just goes to show that if you take care of the Lord’s house, the Lord will take care of all that concerns you,” Pastor Timi says before going on to announce the wedding details.
My eyes fix themselves on the shy bride-to-be and the grinning groom-to-be. They are not that fantastic look-wise.
But they are getting married, a voice says in my head. You wey fine, wetin you get?
Heaving a sigh, I make the decision that will end my husband-hunting dilemma once and for all—I will join the sanitation department.
***
“You want to join the sanitation department?” Brother Titus asks, looking at me from my raw donor Vietnamese bone straight to my Adphia Couture blazer dress and red Christian Louboutin pointed-toe pumps.
No doubt Brother Chipped Tooth is thinking I don’t belong in the sanitation department. My lips spread in a wide smile as I stifle the urge to grimace at Brother Chipped Tooth’s broken central incisor. I just found out his name is actually Brother Titus, not Chipped Tooth as I’ve always referred to him in my head.
“Yes, sir,” I add, throwing in a generous sir to sway and butter him up.
“Are you sure?”
I nod again. “The Holy Spirit laid it upon my heart.”
Liar liar, pants on fire, the voice in my head cackles.
“Ehen?” Brother Titus adds. “Sanitation department work is hard o. Are you sure you don’t want to go and pray about your leading again?”
Which kain enemy of progress is this? Is it not to just sweep and mop? What is so hard about it?
I spread my lips wider to stifle my growing irritation.
“I’m sure, sir. The conviction is strong?”
REALLY?
God, please, the violent taketh it by force, and I am taking my husband by force. All is fair in love and husband hunting.
A round sister in a peplum, Ankara blouse that reminds me of that Fela song about a tailor who sews like a carpenter, walks up to us.
Na swegbe o, na swegbe, the voice in my head finishes off the refrain.
I can’t blame it. Because what on earth is this monstrous blouse with a sleeve joining that starts too far from the shoulder? I’m not sure if the fabric forming the peplum is gathered or pleated. It looks like the tailor couldn’t make up their mind, and the darts on the blouse? Lord, have mercy.
The sister smiles at us before taking a huge bite of her egg roll and chews as she asks Brother Titus what is going on.
“She wants to join the sanitation department.”
The sister’s eyes twinkle with amusement and her lips twitch with a smile she suppresses quickly.
“Sister…”
“Mo,” I supply.
Brother Titus frowns. “Mo?”
“MoromoOluwa,” I finish.
“I want you to pray about it for one week. If you are still convinced the Lord wants you to serve in the sanitation department, I will enrol you in our training class.”
“Brother T, if she is convinced, let her start the class now, nau. We need new members,” Sister A-Carpenter-Sewed-My-Blouse says.
Brother Titus shakes his head. “Sister Happiness, I know we need more hands, but what we really need are committed hands who are fully convinced this is the department for them to grow and serve God.”
Sister Happiness nods and continues eating her egg roll, a sad and horrifying sight I hope to never see again.
“Okay, sir,” I tell Brother Titus just so I can get away from the masticating woman who reminds me of a garbage truck sucking up refuse.
I thank them and smile at Brother Titus’s wish that I have a pleasant week.
I will join the sanitation department whether they like it or not. My husband is just a department away.
***
“Pekele, pekele.”
Those are the first words out of my mouth as I glance through the forty-page training module Brother Titus sent me as an attachment on WhatsApp.
“E pass mopping and sweeping?” I ask myself as I scroll through the e-document.
Apparently, e pass. There’s a chapter on dressing and the infographic on short nails makes me burst into laughter.
“You and who is sporting short nails?”
Scoffing, I continue scrolling, and the subheading “Comfortable Shoes” jumps at me like it sprang out from a jack-in-the-box.
Tell me you want me to wear ugly shoes without telling me you want me to wear ugly shoes.
Heck no!
I continue scrolling.
Washing Toilets.
“Ehn?!”
I jerk up in my bed and read the entire paragraph underneath the garish subheading.
Stationed at the toilets… cleaning in real-time…handing out sanitary towels… disposing of sanitary towels… assisting children in the restroom… thorough washing on Saturdays.
“Excuse me?” I yell at my phone.
Just the thought of helping a child clean up after himself makes me shudder and turn off my phone.
“Uhn-uhn. A whole me? Odindin tech sis. No! I can’t do that!”
Shebi na you dey find husband, the voice in my head says.
Sitting in my bed, weighing my options, I can’t help but wonder if this is worth it. Sure, being in the sanitation department had proven uber successful in helping people find life partners. It had a track record. I had tried it my way for years, and I had nothing to show for it.
Yet, cleaning toilets? Short nails? Can I handle all that because I want man?
HE THAT PUTTETH HIS HANDS TO THE PLOUGH AND LOOKETH BACK IS NOT FIT FOR THE KINGDOM OF GOD.
I don’t know where that Bible verse came from, but it makes sense to me immediately.
If I back out now from the sanitation department because it is light years away from my comfort zone, do I really deserve a husband?
Don’t worry. You will have an interesting story to tell when you eventually find the husband, a voice says in my head.
I can already picture our We Heart Naija Weddings blog post, complete with the swoony pictures and a cheesy slash embarrassing meet-cute.
It will be worth it. I will finish what I started. I will join the sanitation department and get my husband.
***
Maybe I should have joined the sanitation department in the dry season. Because my shoulder aches from the number of times I have mopped this floor today, wiping all the dirty footprints the ladies have trailed in and the dripping from their umbrellas.
The mop is full of liquid, and I do the most disgusting thing ever—squeeze it out with my hands. Sure, I’m wearing gloves. Everyone in the sanitation department wears gloves, but still…Ewwwww!
Pastor Joshua’s voice echoes through the restroom, powerful and convicting as he shares his sermon on humility. I can barely pay attention, not with the pattering of the raindrops on the roof, the rushing of water as toilets flush, the tap filling up the water reservoir, and the muttering of the ladies talking as they wait in the queue.
“Sisters, please hurry up. There is a queue outside,” Sister Rebecca, the assigned hurrier says, and her voice overshadows the Bluetooth speaker playing the sermon.
How is this woman not in the army?
The queue moves as some ladies leave the stalls. Just as I’m about to sit from a bout of mopping, more ladies flock into the restroom.
Sighing, I resume mopping with a fresh mop, and my mind evaluates the whole sanitation department drama.
I think it’s paying off. Last week, a fine guy collected my number. We’ve been talking, and he’s my spec. He’s tall with pecs and broad shoulders, and is Yoruba, works in an investment bank (squeals in power couple), and he’s charming. I like where things are headed. I think he might ask me out this week. I’m not sure, but I’m hoping.
If Tade and I work out, this mopping the floor one million times will be worth it. Smiling as the choir sings an old chorus to lead the church through the offering session, I reach for my phone and transfer my offering into the church’s bank account.
Swaying my hips to Sonnie Badu’s Ese Baba, I mop the floor with renewed vigour. My husband is on the horizon.
