(Reading this note, all these many years later, is still a very emotional moment...)
There’s something quite wonderful about recognising yourself in your culture. I honestly find myself recognising myself in chaotic situations, but when chaos finds me, I have nothing left to do but laugh. All the HR people I’ve engaged with in Kenya have told me, “It’s just easier to get married before you come here”, but I’ve started to sound like a broken record each time I tell them: “That’s not how Zulu’s do it. My father would kill me if we did this the wrong way!”
Okay, maybe he wouldn’t physically kill me. But he would be disappointed. You know that disappointed “You think you’re better now that you’re grown up, my word no longer means anything to you” look. That’s worse than any beating I could ever endure.
We honestly can’t do this without our parents blessing, no matter what the rationalizations are. So the only thing left, ride the boat. No matter how rocky and “adventurous” the process. If I was marrying myself, it wouldn’t be that hard, I’m used to giving my folks wrinkles and sleepless nights. But of all the boys (pardon me, all the Men) in all of Africa, I had to choose a Zulu man. A Zulu man who doesn’t just hold the title, but honours it.
Exhibit A: As much as I’ve never aspired to be a girl who pays her own lobola, my husband has insisted (note the husband, yeah it kinda has a nice ring to it) that he will fulfil ALL of my father’s demands himself, alone, before we tie the knot. I wouldn’t expect anything less of him, he’s just principled like that. But even when I hinted that we could bend the rules just a bit, he wanted no part in it. There’s only the Zulu way or the highway.
Exhibit B: He’s done 80% of the required dues, but today (yes, literally, an hour ago) we find out that there’s another ceremony that’s required. I’ve never heard of it, but it’s in the rule book. So my romantic ideas of getting married days before my birthday have been shattered. It’s not about me, it’s never been about me. It’s about the right thing (USIKO) as the Zulus would call it. So we can’t take even a mini short-cut, (with all honesty, the invitations will come for the big white wedding, but we just want to be together, is that too much to ask!) we need to pull ourselves towards ourselves (phecelezi sizimunce) and ask: What do we need to do?
Exhibit C: Honour God first, and all else shall be given unto you! I love this, I love the madness, the chaos and I love the inconvenience of it all. I’m not Western, I don’t subscribe to the constitution first, I subscribe to my Zulu elders and my husband’s family. We won’t get to have what I imagined, but we will get to honour the Gods I serve. All Zulu, all African, All me.
Exhibit D: The invitations for the white wedding really are on their way, #Stru! For now, let me google Goat salesmen, recipes for traditional beer and enjoy the sheer #Zulurization of our emigration. Today I was at Home-Affairs filling in my Alien Card documents, this evening I’m getting the Zulurization 101 lesson on: Before You Say ‘I Do’.
I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, Life is nothing more than a comedy!’
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