I was supposed to be all tense and shaky but I wasn’t, she was just about to walk in. This calmness I had, came from experience. There was that but there was also the fact that out of the four kids, I was the one most comfortable in my element, complete with a cocky grin. A grin that comes from having never failed before.
On the line, we were following the bride and groom carrying candles on saucers. Whoever thought this was a brilliant idea had clearly never heard of fire hazards. Though the girl next to me tripped and her candle fell on the bride’s dress, this isn’t that story. This is a story about this very normal wedding that didn’t start when we were at the door of the church waiting for the bride and groom so that we could all walk in together with song and dance, it started a week or so earlier.
My reputation as a wedding marcher (yes, that was a thing) had preceded me. I previously was in a wedding and we marched in with this style that the couple thought I was the only one qualified to not only teach the rest of the kids but them too. This was after my grandmother had told the couple that I was the star of the other wedding and that it would be foolish if they didn’t take me on to show them the way. The march involved you twisting your ankle to the outer side of the foot, back and then a step backward with a slight bend. Then a step forward to the starting position. The same with the other foot and then a step forward. So simple, so doable.
I thought a week was too short a time to take them through all the motions till they perfected the art but they insisted that was the only time they had. I suggested they postpone the wedding for like two weeks but they didn’t want to listen to a nine-year-old telling them what’s best for them.
You have to work with the time you’ve got,” they said, conclusively.
“Then everyone has to show up for practice at least twice a day, and a full day on the day before the wedding,” I laid down my demands.
We were in agreement, so I thought. They didn’t show up. Not even the couple. They were too busy to practice for their own wedding march, apparently.
So now there we were, at the church entrance waiting for the bride, or the groom, or both to show up. The thought of them not showing up because they didn’t know how to march at their own wedding crossed my mind. The other kids we were on the line with looked tense and nervous.
People had started gathering, crowds on the outside of the church wanting to gain entry into an already full church. People standing by the windows trying to get a glimpse of what was happening inside.
There were no invites to weddings here. People just came. From all over the place. The church would be filled with people from early in the morning. Some people didn’t even know who was getting married, but they would be seated in the front pews. Some didn’t even know whether it was a wedding or a funeral. Crowds attracted people, and that is all the invitation anyone needed. Random people would walk by and see a crowd and won’t go to whatever business they were going to. One time I saw some guy with a jembe the entire time of a wedding. Bodaboda guys, while ferrying passengers, would make a point of stopping by. Another time, some two mzees who used to play draughts at the shop next to the church carried their bench to the church compound and continued playing their draughts, unbothered about what was happening around them.
At the door, I looked good. I wondered whether the groom would look this good too. My shoes were polished, I had worn a shirt I had never won before. Someone else had worn it but before but that is not the point here. I also had my purple coat on only for the second time ever, this time it was still fitting me perfectly like it was made just for me.
There was a commotion as the bride and groom appeared, someone stepped on my shoes. I wanted to react and step on theirs too but I realized they didn’t even have shoes on, so I let it go. They entered. The groom, as it turned out, was better dressed than I was only that his stomach was a little too big so he couldn’t tuck in his shirt properly. And the buttons of the coat couldn’t shut.
Everyone was in position and I was ready to take over, this was my chance. I was going to march my socks off. I knew there could be other people there who would be getting married soon and I wanted them to see how lively I can make their wedding with this intricate march I was about to do.
It turned out people didn’t remember their steps. Everyone was fumbling. Taking a step back when it was supposed to be a step forward and a combination of many other wrong moves. I, on the other hand, was flawless, even adding in an occasional shoulder shrug after every two steps.
In the confusion of people not knowing the sequence of their steps, the bride took a back step and the girl behind her took a front step, stepping on the gown. When she reacted to move her foot, the candle on her saucer fell on the dress. Yes, this, as it turns out, is actually a story about a fire on the bride’s dress. Someone stepped on the dress in a way to put out the fire, the bride almost fell backward. A commotion ensued as people tried to see what was happening. It happened so fast I doubt even the groom noticed anything at the moment. There was a big hole at the bottom of the bride’s dress though.
The ceremony went on. The pastor said things and asked them questions. They answered. Then he preached, and people started murmuring because of how long his sermon was, and because they were hungry. An elderly lady came and talked about the cake and how it was made, instead of just cutting it. There were more murmurs in the crowd. Which turned into an almost roar when she continued talking about how the cake was carried to church. Finally, she cut it, and it was being distributed on trays.
The tray was grabbed mid-air, and people grabbed as much as they could. With both hands. The person serving was left standing there, confused. Only the people in the first row tasted cake. People at the back were shouting. Someone threw a shoe. This was a disaster. But even the story of how they met began with a disaster.
They had met at a river when she was fetching water. He had taken his father’s cows to the river so that they can drink water. Isn’t this how everyone meets? She balanced her pot nicely on her head, didn’t even try to hold it in place with her hands as she climbed the steep hill, as she had done for many years. She was an expert. He whistled, not at her, because that would have been rude, but at one of the cows that wanted to jump into a neighbor’s farm. She turned, her pot fell on the ground and broke into pieces, water splashing all over her legs. She was worried because of the scolding she would get from her mother.
He saw all this and for a moment thought where more of his attention should be focused, on the girl or on the cows, he decided the former.
hii sio kitu ya maana.
Hii brocken pot utapost mara ngapi?
I just hope that when the pot got brocken, the girls mother didn’t learn of it via brecking news!