Southend U3A

September 2023

African Wedding - Jenny Bowker

I had been doing some charitable work in Tanzania, involved in delivering aid to Somalia, helping to set up a children’s hospital in Kenya and now I was having a rest in a Hyatt Regency, a top-class business hotel in Mombasa. I was on my own but the current business clientele were mainly Agrarian ministers from Europe and Africa discussing the latest fishing areas etc., in the Atlantic. Far beyond my level of understanding but it was interesting when they involved me in their after dinner social chats.

As I was alone, I attracted the attention of a couple on the next table to me at breakfast who invited me to share my meal with them but I was quite happy watching the weaver birds and the mantis at their work. I used to go for a swim in the pool first thing, don a top and shorts for breakfast so I was not dressed for any ‘occasion’. Anyway, the woman was persistent in her invitation and, knowing how women on their own in some countries can attract taboo attention, I agreed to share breakfast the following day. It turned out that Henry and Shoshana were in Mombasa for their daughter’s wedding, to which I was invited. I thanked politely, believing it was a polite but unmeaning invitation but the next morning Shoshana, in a most beautiful peacock blue guipure lace dress and headpiece was waiting for me. ‘Jenny, you are not ready. Go we will wait for you.’ Fortunately, I had learnt from experience over the years to always include one respectable frock with me in my sparse luggage. I ran upstairs, stripped off my wet swimming costume and put on my navy blue and white rumpled polka dot dress which had seen far better days, grey/white sandals, grabbed my tote bag and ran down. I also worried that I did not have a token gift to take to the wedding for the bride and groom. I ran into the hotel gift shop which was festooned with African tourist tat, luxury gold items – far beyond my purse but I spied some quite delicate bone china cup and saucer sets. Unfortunately they were embellished with the words – ‘Best Wishes … Hyat Regency Mombasa’. They were made in England and I was under pressure, so bought two sets, one for bride and one for groom.

Once outside I began to get the idea, I had entered into a realm I was not expecting. For one thing, at the door Henry was greeted by a rank of native soldiers and Masai, complete in animal skins, conche shells, feathers and head rings shouting ‘Nkosi’ and throwing their arms up into the air and rattling spear on shield. Then we were escorted through the rank of ‘guards’ by a very impressive man in height and girth wearing an electric blue uniform festooned with so much gold braid a smaller man would have wilted. Shoshana explained he was the minister of defence for Kenya. His native name was unpronounceable to me and I was in such a daze I could not concentrate. We were settled into a beautiful beige German car, complete with chauffeur and escort of motor cycles through the streets of Mombasa, out to the outskirts of the town, where the metalled roads soon gave way to dusty tracks with pigs running around carrying scrawny chickens on their backs, picking at the ticks that infested them, yellow dogs and ragged, quite often beautiful, children with wide eyes.

A whole crowd of women in native dress, some obviously wealthy, others poorer, were gathered outside one of the shacks in the shanty town. Shoshana handed me over to ‘Aunty May’ who was the mother of the unpronounceable named minister of defence. Her English was non-existent so our communication was minimal. Shoshana eventually rescued me by calling on one of her daughter’s friends who had been to university in Durham and spoke English with a Northern accent. She explained that the bride had to be protected the night before her wedding so she stayed with her friend in the flat above the hairdresser’s shop. I would not have recognised it as such, beyond the clapboard walls and the flaky brown entrance door tied up with string announcing it was a dwelling.

Suddenly a fleet of three huge beige Opel cars arrive and were in the process of disgorging at least five tall, young handsome men from each. They wore identically light beige suits and carried small hunting shields made of animal skins and rattled spears against them. The women in the crowd set up an ululation that could have been heard from miles and the flaky door was thrown open by one of the men. He was beaten back by the women along with shrieks and squeals of laughter. Elizabeth, the bride appeared, wearing a frothy white European bridal dress glistening with pearls and crystal. She had her head down and her arms rigidly in front of her, as if protestation. She walked on silk scarves which had been laid across the stairs because her feet should not touch the ground on the way to her wedding.

Once more the men made a determined effort to capture the bride and once more they were beaten off by the women but inevitably they won and carried the unwilling bride off to her waiting groom.

With much laughter and chattering the women left, frequently giving me furtive glances. ‘Who was this woman?’ I was collected and once more ensconced in the car, this time with ANC representatives from the Kenyan Government. Henry was first minister of Kenya of the UPK – if only I had known. But the men were all very courteous and there was a dearth of women anyway so I did not have to feel too shabby.

We were driven to a huge Catholic cathedral in Mombasa, I do not know its name and I was shown to the left-hand side of the apse, the one for the women and children. The right hand was for the Men and boys and the main body of the cathedral was for important guests. There were politicians wearing banners and stars, gaudy uniforms abounded and, in the front row, I was pleased to note there was a British contingent, flanked by German and Russian representatives, recognisable from their uniform. I was pleased to be sheltered from gaze in the middle of the woman’s pew. At first the choir were singing native songs, unbelievable beautiful combinations of chords and sounds, mournful and happy. I just wished I could have understood the African words but the meaning was clear. Then the catholic minister began the European service and delivered his moratorium on marriage – again in Swahili but translated into English for visiting dignitaries.

There were so many people in the Cathedral; it was hot, children began to snuffle, fans began to twitch but the service went on and on. It was obviously the chance to voice opinions held deeply and I since my return to work I have found that many political African native speakers do like to debate and expand and become rhetorical over the slightest thing. Three hours later the service ended and the bride was whisked away by her groom’s band of ‘brothers’. I waited with the women but was called forward and introduced to many ANC, KNC, UPK members of parliament but I began to feel like the token white. All greeted me politely but not all were easy. Times were still troubled in Kenya and are still tenuous. I was relieved when Shoshana scooped me up and took me in another sleek car (this time a present from Russia I was told) to the reception.

The reception was held in the largest barn I have ever see. The walls, made of planks of wood, had many chinks – through which I could see eyes of many people peering through. This was a relief as there were no windows. The roof was at least thirty feet high and the interior the size of a cinema. I do not how the building stood, as the planks were rough sawn and the roof was made of poles tied together. There were no decorations. There were ranks and ranks of chairs laid out to face a dais at one end of the hall. When chairs ran out, there were serried rows of benches and after this, plank of wood on stones. Seating for at least 750 I would guess.

Beside the entrance three fires were burning, upon which were huge pots, the sort the old Johnny Weissmuller films showed missionaries boiling in. Later during the afternoon, I needed to visit the ladies, which I eventually found by the smell. Luckily, I had had a lot of experience of African latrines. On the way I passed a couple of empty Missionary pots and peeked inside. There were the skeletal remains of a huge animal, probably cow, which had been slaughtered in honour of the bride for her feast. The skull still had the horns on!

The waiting crowd was huge, few European dresses but native dresses of the Massai, Bantu and others I did not recognise, blended with the multitude. I was the only white person. Little children peered at me, as I once peered at the first immigrants to our country. If I smiled, they hurried hid behind their mother. A few became brave and sidled near to me, to be sharply reprimanded by their parents who immediately hid their eyes. It was not a comfortable situation, made worse because I was completely unprepared.

I was eventually led to the ‘top’ table and was sat beside Mr. Unpronounceable and another man, in yet another flamboyant uniform, this time in Green. I felt as if I was sitting between two peacocks. Mr Unpronounceable spoke good English and made an effort to explain things to me. Also, he kept asking political questions to which I had no answer. We did have a very interesting conversation on the economy though, from which I gathered that Kenya as an emerging independent nation was being showered with ‘gifts’ from nations around the world but the Kenyans were aware that paybacks were expected.

The top table was covered with white paper. We were served with a portion of rice from one of the missionary ports and meat from the other, on solid gold heavy plates. We ate with plastic knives and forks. I was fascinated by the flies humming around several bottles of HP Sauce that lined the table with the sauce drippings dried around the bottles.

People kept arriving and it was explained that, at a wedding of this importance, everyone was invited from every village and everyone must be fed. As people arrived, they were given white cardboard plates of food and ate with their fingers. The hall began to fill. Old people came walking with the aid of crutches of wood. Some ‘Elders’ were carried in on the backs of young men, and Henry greeted them all – the politician at work – but many knelt before him and some touched his feet with their foreheads. It was an impressive sight. As soon as people had eaten, they had to make way for new arrivals so there was constant movement in the hall.

Eventually the bride and groom were revealed and all those people who had eft the hall tried to cram back in. I had not seen them in a tent like structure hidden behind the top table. We faced the front (like a guard of honour to their privacy whilst they ate their first meal). Then Henry introduced his daughter and son to the people. But then, horror of horrors, the presentation of presents began. Each person from the top table was to start the presentation . . . Oh Dear. The individual was introduced to the assemblage by name, sometimes accompanied by a roar of approval from the people who supported him. Mr. Unpronounceable gave a pair of gold candlesticks, about five foot high and which took two men each to carry. Then someone else gave a set of plastic vegetable drawers, another a hand sewn native cover, another a packet of toilet rolls. Really. The contrasts were mind blowing. By the time ‘and now our friend from England’ was announced (to silence) I did not feel quite so embarrassed by my ‘Greetings from Hyat Regency, Mombasa’ cups.

Henry had already delayed the flight he was to catch to Nairobi but the time came when he could no longer delay. I went with them to Mombasa airport, accompanied by motor cycle outrider, this time in a large Chrysler (gift from UK) said goodbye and thank you and he mentioned he would love a Rolls Royce (with a twinkle but had I been able he would, I believe expected it) and I was taken back to my hotel.

I was leaving two days later to catch a flight from Nairobi and I think the mysterious silent jungle communication frequently referred to actually exists as bewilderingly. BA laid on a chauffeur driven car for me to the airport where my luggage was immediately whisked through customs and I had complimentary food and drink in the lounge. If only travel could always be that easy. The contrast to what I had been experiencing in the previous months only made the luxury more absurd and I felt as conspicuous in my faded cotton trousers (clean) and tea shirt that was my travelling uniform in the premier lounge at the airport as I did at the wedding in my white skin.