When I was a young lady in my twenties, mama’s song was always,
‘Àríké ọmọ ò mi, make sure you don’t marry from the East, their men can do just anything for money.’

‘Àríké, don’t marry an Hausa man, most of them are not educated.’

‘Àríké, don’t even try to marry a Yoruba man from Àkókó, they are too fetish.’

‘Àríké, men from the Southwest are known for beating their wives.’

‘Àríké, Benin!… don’t even go there!’

Now, nearing forty and having turned down every man who wanted to marry me, mama’s song is ‘Àríké, you’re not getting any younger.’

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