we collapsed from exhaustion. The bridegroom, Bhudhi Robson, was my father’s brother’s son, meaning he was my cousin, just like Piri was my cousin too, though in Shona we do not call anyone cousin.

We are all brothers and sisters.  Bhudhi  Robson was a policeman in Salisbury and his  bride was called  Emeri from Chiweshe, a place way past Salisbury.  Emeri was going to be our first  sister-in-law, our muroora.

It was in the dry season in August  and we did not have to work in the fields. So we spent two weeks practicing in the wedding choir. It was important that our new muroora  knew, right from the beginning, that we  people from Hwedza could sing and dance better than those from Chiweshe.

Every night we practised dancing songs and bridal mocking songs as well, nziyo dzekunemera muroora. Muroora had to be mocked  to help her settle in quickly and get to know how  we were all related to her.

For days we  went down to the river and scrubbed  ourselves so that by the time of the wedding, no one will have cracked feet or man’a. The people from Chiweshe would see that their daughter was marrying into a very clean family and that good hygiene was stuck to us like a second totem.

My grandmother Mbuya VaMandirowesa said  the whole  courtyard had to be absolutely spotless and free of the usual chicken or goat poops. Cleanliness was also a message to  muroora  Emeri .

Once the wedding was over and she had gone to bed to do  what needed to be done with her husband,  then the sun should not rise before she did.  Her job was to rise at the break of dawn and keep the village courtyard clean as  every muroora should.

The women  prepared the seven day millet  beer brew while the men built a grass thatched  shed in the courtyard. Chairs, benches and tables were borrowed from Mr Muchando, the headmaster at St Columbus School.

The  day before the wedding, a whole beast, a goat and several chickens were slaughtered. We went down to the river to climb the mukute trees and collect the thick and wide fleshy leaves for use as plates during the wedding.

On the wedding day, the lorry from Chiweshe came with the bride, her aunts, sisters and the extended family. They  were singing and carrying the bride who was dressed in a white wedding dress and a veil. She was accompanied by three brides maid in bright pink long dresses.

They sang the  song we all knew very well: “We have brought your muroora and her blankets, tauya naye muroora nemagumbeze.” We all joined in clamouring to get closer so we could see how beautiful muroora Emeri was. Piri and others managed to squeeze in first through the crowds.

They said she was fat with a big bottom and she was dark but beautiful. Once Emeri had sat down with the bridal group, Mr Muchando helped move the crowds away and we all stood in a circle to get a good view of the bridal team.

Bhudhi Robson looked tall and handsome in his black suit, white shirt and black bow tie. He was accompanied by three  of  his work friends from the police force, all dressed like him. We had never seen such clean looking men altogether like this in the village before.

Suddenly, a man from Chiweshe sprang into the middle of the circle playing a drum and singing a mocking  song saying we should not cry for their Emeri, because  Robson’s family was so poor  with nothing to offer her:  “Munomuchemera munomupei marombe!” Our choir master, Mr Muchando, said we will not  be beaten in the mocking and jeering contest. He  led us in the song  in which we sang that  Emeri loved dog intestines and we did  not  have the pot to cook them: “Emeri anochemera hura hwembwa, tinohubikira pai?” We sang in single file doing footsteps in rhythm to the song.

Before they fully understood the words,  Emeri  and her bridal group were smiling at us. Then she listened carefully and burst into tears. The more she cried, the more we sang and danced.  We changed the song to another one telling her that if Robson had not chosen her for marriage, she would have been married by a baboon in the  mountains: “Dai pasina Robson wedu, wainoroorwa negudo remugomo!” The  jest and mockery was not meant to make her upset or angry. It was just a traditional way to break and welcome her into the extended family.

The bridal team and the elders ate from white metal plates borrowed from every household while we ate rice and chicken from the mukute leaves. While we drank  mahewu, the non-alcoholic drink, beer frothed in big clay pots and the adults drank, sang and danced.

Then there was a break for speeches from both sides of the family. Afterwards,  Mr Muchando announced that it was time for presents. He challenged both families to show how much they loved Robson and Emeri by giving big  presents.

A competition then started between the two families. Mbuya VaMandirowesa offered a whole goat and I remember my mother saying she would mould a big clay pot for muroora Emeri and teach her how to brew beer for the whole family. There was loud applause from everyone.

Money, cows, goats and even ploughs were given and some pledged. After the presents, we ate more and more meat, then danced  with the Chiweshe family until the early hours of the morning.

The Chiweshe group then gave their thanks and asked their munyai or go between to announce that a bigger wedding to surpass ours was waiting for us in Chiweshe, the very following week. They left Emeri, her sister and her two aunts, vanatete vake with us temporarily.

Just before sunrise, we saw Emeri wearing a long dress, head covered with a doek in black tennis shoes sweeping the whole courtyard assisted by one of the aunts. Here was our new muroora, strong and ready to work and cook for us forever.

We inspected her body, the way she walked, talked and smiled. We sat back in the morning sun, leaning against Mbuya’s kitchen hut waiting for Emeri and her team to serve us.

We were Robson’s sisters and therefore Emeri’s husbands. Not only had she married Bhudhi Robson, she had married us as well. It was tradition. We made comments about her big bottom and the thickness of her legs. “With those hips, Bhudhi chose well. She was fertile for sure,” we whispered with glee.

Meanwhile,  Emeri’s  other aunt and sister fetched water from the well  and placed it in big tins to boil.  While the other pair made sweet tea with bread and thick pan cakes, mafetikuku,   Emeri and her  younger tete came and knelt down to give us water to wash ourselves.

Then they knelt down again and gently  oiled  each one of us from the youngest two-year old to the oldest of the nephews and cousins with the peanut oil from her  gourd, chinu chake. When we were all clean and fed, Emeri and her team  went up the hills looking for firewood to light the fire and  cook meat and sadza for all of us.

We made jokes with Emeri saying this hard work  was just the beginning. Ours was a big compound and no place for a weak  or lazy muroora. She laughed and said it was nothing, their own compound in Chiweshe was twice as big and her varoora did all the work over there.

She then reminded us that one day,  this would be her village and we were all going to leave and marry into a family where we shall be treated like donkeys.

We laughed and said that was not true though we knew very well young girls like Piri and myself must find  a man and a home somewhere to become  muroora to another family. That is the way it has always been, families uniting  in marriage and exchanging daughters.

Little did we know that after the war, independence would come and some of those children born after independence would go and live overseas. One day they would come home to get married.  Their parents, aunts or elders will have no say in who these post independence lovers want to invite to their expensive urban weddings.

And so, in the past six months there were two weddings in our family. Piri was not invited to both. The brides and grooms specifically said they would only invite people they knew. Since Piri was not known to any one of them, she had to be scratched.

It was not as if I did not try to get her on to the  guest list. I did. But my Diaspora family who came here specifically to have an African wedding in an African environment surrounded by their African relatives, did not know Piri. Although Piri had seen them and knew them by name, they did not know her.

I explained to them that Piri was actually my father’s brother’s daughter and we grew up together in the same village compound. The only difference between me and her was that I was lucky to get missionary education while Piri suffered from the racist Rhodesian education system that offered little opportunities to African children.

Like many children who grew up before independence, Piri never went past Grade Seven even though she was very intelligent. My Diaspora family smiled and shook their heads politely, and taped me on the shoulder to say, we understand what happened,  but no, your cousin from the village  is not coming to our wedding. These Diaspora educated people sometimes place rights where  no rights are needed at all.

In order to break the disappointing news to Piri, I took her out for sadza and  beef stew along Seke road. I explained that  she could not come to the wedding because  each guest was going to cost $60 per chair and that is not including the tent hire, the table arrangement, let alone the food, alcohol, flowers, DJ, the cake and many other costs.

Piri argued that she did not cost that much to be at the wedding. “One plate of sadza or rice, nyama or chicken and maybe  two or three beers? Where does the $60 placed on my head come from?” She was quite upset.

Then she challenged me to simply say that we were having an African white wedding that excluded poor relatives, muchato wechirungu usingadi hama dzisina mari. Since I was contributing  to some of the wedding costs, I pulled out the budget sheet given to me by the wedding planner.

Because the weddings were  going to be held on different days, at an exclusive place where celebrities and other well known people with money get married,  only 120 people were allowed at each wedding. Piri was horrified when I showed her that  the tables, plates, wine glasses, cloths, covered chairs, cutlery along with other things with various names  came  close to $5 000.

The food for 120 people was more than $4 000 including jam tarts, ice cream and bread and butter pudding for desert. The tent hire alone with  fairy lights, use of toilets and their cleaners, views of the African musasa  trees and brown grass  was just under $5 000.

The cost of the table for a bar,  tea towels, ice, ice buckets, ice tongs, non-slip trays, cooler bins, tables, table cloths was separate. The waiters and security guys were not included in the bar service and their transport costs and payment per hour was not to be forgotten either.

It was really important to have waiters because when  the wedding party was in full swing, the waiters would be the only people able to count  how many  bottles of  soft drinks, beers, whisky, brandy, wine and other spirits had been drunk .

“What if the waiters choose  to hide  some of the beers and spirits in the bushes?” Piri asked. I said that was possible. Then she added, “You cannot even prove who stole what because you do not want both sides of the family to be pointing fingers at each other. True?”

I nodded and as I put away the wedding planner’s sheet, I told Piri that the total cost  for each wedding was going to be a little over  $27 000 and while it was ridiculously expensive, it was a choice for the bride and groom. Sadly, they will be working overtime  for a long time to cover the wedding costs. And yet, there are some costs they could do without.

Piri took a deep breath and said, “Ah, ya, sometimes, a beast, beer, mukute leaves and a drum are all you need. So what kind of music will be played?” I shrugged and said I did not know, but what I knew for sure is that the drum was not going to  be allowed at such a civilized venue.

Piri laughed and said, “Why bring some village people to  hidden faraway places in the forests  where you force them to dance to Western type music  and eat pudding? What crime has the drum committed to be left out of  the wedding party? ”

Dr Sekai Nzenza is a writer and cultural critic. She holds a PhD in International Relations and works as a development consultant.

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