Invitations

I had my first invitation to someone’s home yesterday and it turned out to be one of those Rwanda moments where you wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. A teacher friend, Marceline, from my favourite school was getting married and I’d been invited to the pre wedding ceremony where the families exchange dowry. Entering the home was nothing less than intimidating as every pair of eyes turned towards me as I picked my way through the crowd. People were seated on benches in rows around a mud courtyard with a makeshift plastic shelter for the occasion. Men and women sat together, some clasping oversized metal mugs of sorghum beer which was ladled out from two huge gourds in the centre of the gathering and covered with banana leaves. Mugs were passed around and the celebratory drink was shared. The woman looked incredible; the wedding party in mishinanas, the traditional wedding outfit in Rwanda that resembles the Indian sari, the local women in bright kangas and igitengas and head scarves. Spirits where high and I quickly joined the other teachers I knew from the school who immediately made me welcome and squished me down on a bench and tightly sandwiched me between them. I was handed sorghum beer and had my first try as the congregation shamelessly  watched to see my reaction. A sea of blue and mustard gathered at the gate of the house, as the students in their uniforms flocked to see their teacher’s new fiancé and the muzungu guest.

I’d only been sitting for a few minutes before I was summoned into the family home to greet the bride to be. The room she waited in was pitch dark and my untrained eyes could barely make out the shapes of the many people surrounding her. Bodies filled the room as I hugged and hand-shook various family members and friends. I was brought the ubiquitous two fantas and my eyes began to adjust enough for to see how beautiful Marceline looked with her slick elegant hair, simple mishinana and glowing smile and plastic string of pearls. When the visiting grooms family arrived the ceremony could begin. It started with three young family members having to choose between three men including the husband to be. The joke is that the children are supposed to pick the wrong man and make the audience laugh, and dutifully they did. There was a lot of humour in the air. Then the bride and her bridal party came out to high pitched ‘eeeeeesss’ from the female members of the congregation, not quite a tribal call, nor a cheer, but definitely a sound of approval and celebration. The beer was blessed in prayer and then the bride and grooms family ceremonially drank from the large gourds of sorghum beer together and  the bride and groom did the same. Gifts of shovels and hoes were given to the daughter’s family to more undulations of female calls of approval. Food was handed out to the bridal parties, plates of potatoes, ground nut, beans, aubergine and rice, and then to my surprise, every person in the crowded courtyard was offered a plate of food as well as beers and fanta. There must have been well over a 100 people there, and that wasn’t including the growing crowd of children at the gate. Many photos were taken of the bride with each family member with a retro point and shoot camera that had to be hand wound on each time. Photos were a serious event and the face had to show it.

Unfortunately, rain looked imminent and the dirt track back to the main road was pretty treacherous when it got wet, with steep drops, log bridges, rocky hairpin bends and lots of steep mud and gravel down hills, so it was time to say my goodbyes. I picked my way between the chairs to thank Marceline, only to get myself caught in a series of Rwandan style hugs and an awkward photo shoot. There was much hilarity as I had my photo taken with the bride and her fiancé in different arrangements (me, her, him and her, him, me and then lastly her, me, him!) and huge ripples of laugher as i put my arm around his waist. I guess I commited some kind of wedding faux pas, but rather laughter than social exclusion. I thought my farewell was complete but instead the group of female teachers I’d been sitting with and one male member of the wedding party who had decided we were next in line for marriage ceremonies paraded me up the mud steps onto the dirt track for an individual less formal photo shoot. It was all very heart warming and inclusive and it was probably the first time that I felt some true connection between myself and Rwandan women in the area.

My only disappointment from the whole experience was that I didn’t see even one cow change hands!