Another season of weddings is here again and as usual, everybody’s being dragged in!
Another season of weddings is here again and as usual, everybody’s being dragged in! Why, ours is an Ujamaa nation whereby what’s his is yours too—more so if it’s a problem.
Marrying off a child can be a huge problem today.
Yeah, it can be, because, irrespective of the parents’ poverty level, the child (or her mother) will insist you stage a princely wedding bash for them—or leave it, kama hutaki!
“You’ve many friends who, whenever they marry off their own, you contribute; au siyo?” the child will ask in a rather intimidating way.
It’s like they’re the domestic Controller and Auditor General.
Otherwise, how would anyone take for granted that you contribute towards your friends’ children’s princely weddings?
Do they even know who your friends are?
Well, most of the guys I consider friends are financially smart, mean fellows. My real association with them is basically limited to having the occasional drink together as we discuss the silly and naughty things grown men discuss.
Old folks who consider a wedding ceremony a man’s own cross.
Yeah, the type that—being aware their children will one day say they’ve found a partner ready to tie the knot with them—start saving early.
Including opening a special account for the auspicious event. In which case, their child’s wedding preparations become more or less a private matter.
Their vikao invite only close relatives and very close friends, and their vikao are normally held at their residence.
When you rope in everybody to your offspring’s marriage plans, you’re often forced to hold the vikao at some bar. Like it’s happening today.
A purported close friend insisted you attend his son’s final wedding kikao. When you resisted, saying there’s no need for you to be at the kikao since you’d already honoured your Sh100k pledge.
Oh, yeah, a whopping one lakh, your inborn ubahili wa Kipare notwithstanding!
“I disagree, bro!” he argued.
“You must participate at this final kikao and hence, the most important one.”
Added the Mzaa Chema, “Tricky issues might arise, and your great wisdom will surely be handy.”
Wa Muyanza’s great wisdom ha-ha-ha! Flattery never fails anyone, so I succumbed.
The kikao is taking place at this spacious, semi-open-air establishment off the Mwenge–Bagamoyo road.
You’re there at minutes to 5pm and the kikao, scheduled to begin at 3pm, is just starting with a tiny number of wajumbe.
Anyway, by 5.30pm there’s a sizeable number of wajumbe, and soon, the kikao is in full swing under the chairmanship of youthful Braza Jay.
We don’t just discuss the budget and the forthcoming wedding protocols; we also drink and munch bites.
Thank God, we’re on budget, a budget that you won’t reveal since it’s an obscenity—kufuru!
Before closure, the treasurer announces that we owe the bar Sh300k. Someone shoots up and shouts, “300k for what?” “Uchakavu!” says the Kikao Treasure, who’s unmistakably tipsy.
“We’ve not been drinking just water here!”
Baba Mzaa Chema stands up and says there’s no need to worry, for there are well-heeled senior citizens like Mzee Muyanza who’ll make sure we don’t get stuck.
And turning to where I’m seated, he asks, “Au siyo, Mzee wangu?”
“Certainly, haina shida,” I sheepishly answer as I pull out 20k from my thin wallet, much as I’d taken just three bottles of Castro Laiti and one tiny mshikaki.
