I look around the big round table, covered in white linen with a huge bouquet of flowers in the centrepiece. At least ten empty dishes lie in front of everyone sitting at the table. All the women are dressed in their finest kabas, and all the men sport kente vests under sharp-looking suit jackets. Couples. If they’re not engrossed in conversations with each other, they are scrolling and clicking away on their smartphones. No one seems to notice I’m even here.

I’m in a violet-pink lit room full of people sitting at similar-looking tables in heterosexual pairings. The shouting and thumping bass are loud. Somewhere behind me, off toward one end of the room, tables have been moved away to make space for an already-packed dance floor. Several onlookers are snapping away on cellphones or giant cameras on tripods. Something tells me that is the part of the room I should be in. Not here, the only single girl at the table.

I stand up. Someone grabs my hand and pulls me down. I can’t place who it is, but the couples on either side of me are now staring at me intently. “Where are you going?” the women ask in unison. “Come on, talk to us. How was China? The food was obviously good there, eh?” I feel fingers jab at my stomach and my sides.

“Leave me alone,” I stand up again, violently this time. My chair topples over. Déjà vu.

“Aw, come on! Talk to us. Stay here with us.” The chorus of voices follow me down the room as I finesse my way around each table, heading for the dance floor and yet feeling like it’s so far away that I’ll never reach it. I’m bombarded with questions and gossip and grabby hands pulling at my kimono from each table I pass:

“How did your youngest sister end up marrying before you?”

“Didn’t you bring anyone back with you? How sad!”

“You’re not going back there, are you?”

“Don’t you know how much your family needs you?”

“Wish I could pack up and ship off to a foreign country anytime I want. If only I didn’t have a husband … You’ll see, one day you’ll see how lucky you were …”

“Let go,” I tell them all. “Get off me!”

It’s like wading through thick seaweed, trying to get past. Someone grabs my wrist again. I whip my arm out of their grip and smack into a butler — or something that looks like a butler. It’s half my size, and there’s a metal block where its head should be. “You-want-some-more?” It holds up a flute full of champagne. I shake my head no and keep going. “You-want-some-more?” I hear behind me. With its robotic voice, it sounds more like a statement of fact than an offering. You want some more.

I don’t want champagne. I want my family.