Last Thursday I was invited to a pre-wedding party. Here is my report of the proceedings.
We didn't leave for the party till nine, so any thought of an early night were banished, instantly, though Wafaa was so tired. We found the place, a sprawling multi-family compound at the north end of the airport, by the throbbing music. Abandoned the car in the dark and dusty alleyway, we threaded our way through a warren of passages and dead ends, receiving well-wishes and wellcomes from all. The courtyard already boasted more than 50 guests (this was to increase threefold at its peak) occupying plastic picnic chairs around the perimeter. Thousands of blue LED fairy lights draped the sandy walls, flashing randomly, in an attempt to give the place a semblance of at least a modicum of affluence. This time there was no glitzy and costly bash. These people were relatives of one of Wafaa's long-time friends (one soon to be mine also), all from the poorer side of town yet all having a thoroughly good time. A mixed band of brass, strings and percussion beat out a hypnotic African rythmn as several male singers (they seemed to come and go all evening) took it in turns to get up and croon Sudanese hit songs. Small children in their best rags, cavorted about in the sand or jumped from the half-completed brick patio with gay abandon, so happy at the party that was unfolding around them. Older girls, coyly thrilled at being considered old enough to join the womenfolk, sat and chatted animatedly, showing off their newly acquired party hand-me-downs.
More humanity crammed into the yard, the tempo increased, groups of men at first, then women, began to take up positions in the centre, segregated by sex, swaying and occasionally mildly shaking their boogie, in the sedate Sudanese dance fashion. The panoply of stars, having struggled against the yard's LEDs and an arc floodlight, now went to bed as the three-quarter Moon bathed the Earth in her soft glow. Young boys joined the men in appreciating the music, young girls animatedly encouraged each other to dance too. I sat alongside my fiancée, she chatting with her friend, me playing hide and seek behind my fingers with a beautiful little tot who was entranced by the rare sight of a white face; and at such close range!
Around eleven, refreshments arrived, meagre plates of bread, felafel, cheese and olives, baklava and a tub of sweet rice pudding. The party drinks came from a bucket of cool water at the far end of the courtyard for those who wished to negotiate the hemming crowd. Now the music got positively raunchy – for Sudan. With the rampant abandon that typifies Old Tyme dancehalls for the Elderly in the West, people gathered in greater numbers, one group of men, one of women, snapping their fingers outragiously, not caring a hoot for any disaproving frowns at such lack of decorum. The Men's group managed a few shoulder rolls and I distinctly saw at least one hip-swivel – this was almost X-rated entertainment!
As do all good parties, this one finished in time to avoid a neighbourly call to the Religious Police and in what seemed but a few minutes, the throbbing crowd had disappeared, leaving just the Groom, both families (the Bride is not allowed to be spotted by her husband-to-be and was presumably watching an Islamic version of Eastenders on telly) and the only non-family guests, Wilco and his Woman. I felt tremendously honoured to be accepted, vitually as a family member, but Wafaa took it in her stride:
“The Groom's sister is my best friend, therefore we are accepted.” Life values are so wonderfully simplistic here and pure trust is evident everywhere.
The real party got going now; the kids had purloined one of the bongos from the band and took it in turns showing off their percussionary prowess; well, they at least enjoyed the opportunity to make noise. A shisha pipe was lit and its perfumed smoke drifted across the deserted dance area. A large silver tray of what appeared to be perfume bottles and gourds was ceremoniously brought out and placed with reverence on a bed that had doubled as a bench during the evening. My quizzical look was intercepted by my intended, who had just finished an animated conversation with her chum:
“David, you have been invited to be the first to receive a henna decoration to celebrate tomorrow's wedding. It is a great honour but they will understand if you don't want to.” I shrugged:
“Rhanna shoer! (“No problem!” in the Kapsiki dialect of Northern Cameroon) Would you like me to?”
“Darling, I too would be honoured and so proud of my Man!” That decide the matter.
Amidst much excitement as all gathered around to watch (they had never seen a white man being hennaed and probably wondered what the effect on my pale skin would be), I took centre stage and placed my right hand into that of a buxom and cheerful lady who exuded the air of both a mystic and a party-lover. She anointed me with a red oil then worked it into the skin, producing a mildly jealous reaction from Wafaa:
“She is caressing your hand as I should be doing.”
“Never mind, Sweetheart,” I answered with a wicked grin,” I can't reach for a pound to pay her, the money is in the front pocket of my jeans; you will have to slide your hand in and grope about until you find it!”, hoping no one else understood English.
“It? Do you mean the money, or something else?” he trumped my bid in the risqué humour stakes.
Well-oiled, next was placed in the palm of my hand a dollop of what looked and squelched like a fresh, soft turd, though the smell, a mixture of new-mown hay and malted barley, was much more agreeable. This was worked around until the whole palm was covered, continuing along the thumb to obscure the top inch. I was then invited to ball my fist (remember squeezing mud through your fingers as a kid?) to sink my ofingertips into it as a line of the brown stuff was spread across my knuckles. Now came the waiting; it was already after 0100 and my fiancée was desperately tired:
“You must wait at least half an hour before it is removed!” admonished the magical lady.
The impromptu music continued, the women sang and chanted ages-old songs of the Saharan wind, a couple of guys alarmingly toyed with an automatic pistol, wondering whether they should announce the day to the world with a shot or two, the bridegroom lay back and had his hands, arms and feet hennaed:
“I suppose this is a rehearsal for our wedding?” I queried my spouse. She sleepily nodded, a smile of pure contentment spreading to encompass her lovely features.
Time up! My hand was scraped and rubbed clean to reveal dark yellow stains that gave me the appearance of a terminal nicotine addict. By tomorrow they would be a deep umber in tone. We made our farewells and stumbled through the darkened passages out into the alley. Our homeward drive was quiet, save for the erotically-charged songs of Donna Summer groaning from the tape. I dropped Wafaa with a kiss to her fingertips and sped through vacant streets to my flat, falling into bed a little after three. The night was the first pre-wedding party (they couldn't afford a grand reception so tonight's party, and a wedding breakfast tomorrow, was their only celebration) I had been to that did not have all the glitz, the glamour, the OTT showing-off of wealth and social status that seemed de rigeur for the haves. Yet for me, these have nots enjoyed a more genuine pleasure in the matrimonial celebration of a young couple on the brink of a life-changing leap into their future. I had a great night.
Dave
