Leave the slogging sometimes and attend the fun dowry talks

As a typical wage slave, I’ve sometimes wondered why people go and “waste” time at bride price negotiations rather than sitting in the office and banging copy. As I grow older and my agemate’s children become of marriage age, I have discovered that dowry ceremonies are, to indulge in poor taste, “da bomb”. I have spent most of my life away from my tribe; these days I respond to cultural events like a thirsty bull muscling its way to the watering hole.

I’ve known my friend continuously — except for a few sulking months, and he does love and is very good at sulking — for a solid 25 years. I’ve known his wife even longer — 30 years. Not only have I seen their children grow, but we’ve memories. My friend has an amazing bond with his daughter, forged in a lifetime of shared experiences and an enduring love of music.

These marriage things are amazingly beautiful; everyone is happy and cheerful — at least in the few that I’ve attended. The young ladies in long dresses and mind-boggling hairdos are lovely, the young men surprisingly sophisticated in dress, all dashing and handsome. You almost expect a Rolls-Royce to drive up to take the party to the casinos of Montpellier.

But the real fun, “da bomb”, is the negotiation itself.

What many city slickers and foreigners never quite get is that it’s never about the money; the children are not on sale and the dowry is fixed by tradition anyway. It’s in the intricate dance of niceties, good-natured flattery, subtle levity, the maze of customs and traditions and the battle of wits between the two gladiators and their cast of uncles, aunties and other fans.

If you have been cohabiting with your girlfriend — “bbz” in your lingo — or have a child before begging her clan for her hand in marriage, you, your father and your uncles are in deep trouble. Not only have you been so mannerless as to enter a man’s kraal without his leave; you have broken his fence. You come to the table as a law breaker and the issue is not whether you will be punished; it is how badly.

Law breakers will usually enlist the help of accomplished negotiators, who can overcome the anger of the father-in-law with humour and diplomacy. Among prospective in-laws, displeasure is subtly communicated. The offending party will be referred to as “friends”, “neighbours” or some other word which can be interpreted to mean “human being”. The honour that they will desperately be waiting for is to be termed “in-laws” — meaning their proposal was being positively considered.

Normally, the groom’s delegation is welcomed with song and dance, fervently prayed for, extravagantly washed with flattery and feted with mountains of food. (In my culture, we value the quantity more than the taste). And then boom! The master of ceremonies will jump to his feet, profusely thank — by my calculation, half of every speech consists of thanks — the “visitors” for the pleasure of their company and inform them that they had eaten to their fill, been entertained at length and prayed for with generosity and their hosts, being hardworking and busy people, were anxious to return to their farms. Could the visitors depart at their earliest convenience?

How the “small matter” is restored to the table is source of great comedy and fun. The visitors had brought that elder of rare talent; he looked like an elder — perfectly still, no fidgeting, with an impassive, authoritative, perhaps even intimidating, face when in repose. But when he smiled, the skies opened and the sun shone. Big, white beautiful African teeth and a smile as warm as the noonday sun.

“Let me tell you a story,” he started his pitch, after about an hour of thanks and the most effortless flattery. My people love stories. So he spoke about this honourable young man, visiting a village, came upon a homestead, whereupon he knocked and the gate was opened for him, he was welcomed with a cup of tea and food in large quantities. And seeing his gracious host’s beautiful, obedient and well-brought up daughter, fell in love and respectfully asked for her friendship.

He did not come through the gate, the elder was coldly reminded, he broke the fence of a passionate and professional builder.

The elder jumped to his feet with joyful glee and cunning and, after thanking the in-laws at length, admitted that the young man may, sadly, not have come through the main gate, but he did not break the fence; he had lifted a strand of barbed wire and crawled under it! Then he launched into a series of parables involving a calabash and a digging stick, the delicate implication of which was: Look, this stuff happens, please don’t give us a hard time.

The barbed wire comeback ranks among the best. I heard the story of a mean clan that had brought very thin goats, secure in the knowledge that rejecting a gift is unheard of. “Give us medicine for these thin goats,” the hosts had countered, deftly repaying the insult and extracting full value from the mean party.

I’ve run out of space, but it was a wonderful experience. And remember, there is more to life than just banging copy — or whatever it is you do.

We’ll talk about BBI sometimes.

In my last column two weeks ago, I used “nascent” to describe our budding plutocracy. The word I was looking for was “emergent”; nascent has positive connotations. My apologies.