On Sunday, I was supposed to get a ride to a church with the bride and groom who were shortly going to get married in it. I'd been to this Swahiliphone church before and was happy to be there again to forever bid farewell to N2O's freedom peace empty uterus singularity, but as the time of the ceremony came and went, I reflected that this may be late even for this culture. So I made my way over to the church from memory, arriving only an hour late thanks to a bus whose back door kept flying open every few feet.
I was worried about looking like a muzungu in a poor area of town; I'm not sure if this was prejudice, or if unsavoury types were just just too shocked at this golden-egg-laying goose waddling into their midst, or if they were ashamed to attack it on a Sunday morning. In any case, kind people helped me arrive at the door of the church safe and sound.
I was worried about looking like a muzungu in a poor area of town; I'm not sure if this was prejudice, or if unsavoury types were just just too shocked at this golden-egg-laying goose waddling into their midst, or if they were ashamed to attack it on a Sunday morning. In any case, kind people helped me arrive at the door of the church safe and sound.
And I stayed there for another half-hour because apparently no one is to interrupt praise and worship by (heaven forbid) walking in or out of the church while the music bangs on and people shriek and dance like dervishes. I spent this time warning small girls to not touch my hair or I would smack them into next week. (I might have only thought half of this, but it didn't matter – they ignored me and kept fondling my hair as though it was falling from heaven and not attached to a person.)
When I was finally allowed in, I spied a beautiful but unnaturally silent, sombre N2O beside her fiance and shielded by layers of makeup and voile as the church celebrated around them. After an excited sermon (there is no other kind in an evangelical church) where the main point seemed to be to have God's ensign in your heart and that wives should be kind and polite or they'd break before their stronger husbands, the actual exchange of vows and rings took place - the highlight of which was the bride and groom holding each other's hands way up in the air so as to make sure everyone could see the ring sliding on and give their blessing in prayer, ululation, whistles, and clapping.
I was then forced to make a quick exit and walk nearly halfway to my own dear church under the hot sun and the amused eyes of everyone – until I unexpectedly got a front seat in an otherwise full bus and arrived a half-hour late to our Palm Sunday music service. Of course, it hadn't begun yet; I found a seat in the nearly empty room and fought a bone-deep sigh.
After another loud, joyful time of praise (in what would become a packed church), I walked another ten minutes to the location of the wedding reception, accompanied by a very solicitous young man who (I think) expects me to give his family a home or give him a phone or... basically anything I have lying around, really. I knew when he began our conversation with, “Why didn't you call me?” that things were not going to go well. You gave me your number and I told you I don't use my phone often – that's why. As I'd just refused another nice young man who was convinced that water purification systems should be the first line of aid for survivors of sexual violence, I didn't have much patience for this new outstretched hand of friendship and gently sent him on his way as soon as possible.
After waiting outside the building for a while, we were eventually slowly allowed up a tightly winding staircase, where I was demanded to give up my wedding invitation. I fought this – I like very few people and, like any hoarder, I obsessively keep everything related to them – because it had their pictures in it! The sweet young usher firmly took the invitation out of my hands and tossed it into a box with all the others. I dithered for a short time, wondering whether this battle was worth fighting as everyone was staring at me... then I grabbed my invitation out of the box again and made a break for it.
We waited as the couple arrived (an hour late) and cut a ribbon to a gate that symbolised their leaving an old world behind. As they passed through, everyone clapped and called them father and mother – of twins, even (because the pressure never ends). Then gifts were presented: friends would dance down the aisle, hand them to the... godmother and godfather (for lack of better words), and then gracefully sashay away again. Cows, goats, their milk, partial university tuition, and a baby were some of the more interesting gifts (that last was a joke – more blessing and encouragement to get started on making their own). My favourite group was four cute young men who skillfully and enthusiastically boogeyed on up with 'traditional' gifts: a broom, a woven tray for separating rice, and a wooden mortar and pestle – tools they wouldn't be caught dead using.
Then we were invited to eat (a process that was much more organised than I thought possible – considering I'd been expecting a fight to the death). I stuffed food down and managed to squeeze in a picture with N2O and her husband before rushing out with a kind couple who'd been introduced to me as an alternative to walking home alone in the dark.
I tried to remain mentally present for an engaging discussion on religion while I reflected how uncharacteristically serious N2O had been. I'm not sure if this is my natural bias at work, but it seems to me that most brides in Mali, Congo, and India seem sad. It's as though the psychological repercussions of a 'dowry' – effectively buying or selling daughters into other families - doesn't sit well on one of the most important nights of their lives... go figure.
Or maybe she'd been warned not to smile in case her makeup cracked; I'm the last person to know what goes through a normal young woman's mind. I'm weirded out enough when sweet mamans look me up and down, smack their lips, and call me 'tasty.'
Joy made its entrance when I remembered that I wasn't going to work on Monday due to warnings of demonstrations encouraged by the opposition against the current government. I'm not trying to avoid work or watch the country burn; I'm looking at the silver linings of avoiding the Monday blues and discouraging my stalker.
When I was finally allowed in, I spied a beautiful but unnaturally silent, sombre N2O beside her fiance and shielded by layers of makeup and voile as the church celebrated around them. After an excited sermon (there is no other kind in an evangelical church) where the main point seemed to be to have God's ensign in your heart and that wives should be kind and polite or they'd break before their stronger husbands, the actual exchange of vows and rings took place - the highlight of which was the bride and groom holding each other's hands way up in the air so as to make sure everyone could see the ring sliding on and give their blessing in prayer, ululation, whistles, and clapping.
I was then forced to make a quick exit and walk nearly halfway to my own dear church under the hot sun and the amused eyes of everyone – until I unexpectedly got a front seat in an otherwise full bus and arrived a half-hour late to our Palm Sunday music service. Of course, it hadn't begun yet; I found a seat in the nearly empty room and fought a bone-deep sigh.
After another loud, joyful time of praise (in what would become a packed church), I walked another ten minutes to the location of the wedding reception, accompanied by a very solicitous young man who (I think) expects me to give his family a home or give him a phone or... basically anything I have lying around, really. I knew when he began our conversation with, “Why didn't you call me?” that things were not going to go well. You gave me your number and I told you I don't use my phone often – that's why. As I'd just refused another nice young man who was convinced that water purification systems should be the first line of aid for survivors of sexual violence, I didn't have much patience for this new outstretched hand of friendship and gently sent him on his way as soon as possible.
After waiting outside the building for a while, we were eventually slowly allowed up a tightly winding staircase, where I was demanded to give up my wedding invitation. I fought this – I like very few people and, like any hoarder, I obsessively keep everything related to them – because it had their pictures in it! The sweet young usher firmly took the invitation out of my hands and tossed it into a box with all the others. I dithered for a short time, wondering whether this battle was worth fighting as everyone was staring at me... then I grabbed my invitation out of the box again and made a break for it.
We waited as the couple arrived (an hour late) and cut a ribbon to a gate that symbolised their leaving an old world behind. As they passed through, everyone clapped and called them father and mother – of twins, even (because the pressure never ends). Then gifts were presented: friends would dance down the aisle, hand them to the... godmother and godfather (for lack of better words), and then gracefully sashay away again. Cows, goats, their milk, partial university tuition, and a baby were some of the more interesting gifts (that last was a joke – more blessing and encouragement to get started on making their own). My favourite group was four cute young men who skillfully and enthusiastically boogeyed on up with 'traditional' gifts: a broom, a woven tray for separating rice, and a wooden mortar and pestle – tools they wouldn't be caught dead using.
Then we were invited to eat (a process that was much more organised than I thought possible – considering I'd been expecting a fight to the death). I stuffed food down and managed to squeeze in a picture with N2O and her husband before rushing out with a kind couple who'd been introduced to me as an alternative to walking home alone in the dark.
I tried to remain mentally present for an engaging discussion on religion while I reflected how uncharacteristically serious N2O had been. I'm not sure if this is my natural bias at work, but it seems to me that most brides in Mali, Congo, and India seem sad. It's as though the psychological repercussions of a 'dowry' – effectively buying or selling daughters into other families - doesn't sit well on one of the most important nights of their lives... go figure.
Or maybe she'd been warned not to smile in case her makeup cracked; I'm the last person to know what goes through a normal young woman's mind. I'm weirded out enough when sweet mamans look me up and down, smack their lips, and call me 'tasty.'
Joy made its entrance when I remembered that I wasn't going to work on Monday due to warnings of demonstrations encouraged by the opposition against the current government. I'm not trying to avoid work or watch the country burn; I'm looking at the silver linings of avoiding the Monday blues and discouraging my stalker.
Woe returned home to roost when I realised late on Monday morning that I'd left my underwear to dry in the bathroom I share with my male housemate.
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At the risk of sounding desperate - PLEASE WRITE TO ME!