The lucky groom’s ancestral roots are traceable to Musoma while his bride is from the land of my watani, the very people whose name for food is ndisi.
I’m attending yet another wedding reception. A close buddy’s son exchanged vows earlier in the day and it’s now time to “eat the wedding”—literally.
The lucky groom’s ancestral roots are traceable to Musoma while his bride is from the land of my watani, the very people whose name for food is ndisi.
Lucky groom, yeah; because he has landed a wife who’s not only beautiful, but brilliant as well, for her educational journey ended where—as Kalule my Baganda friend would put it—learning comes to a full stop!
My old buddy, Mzee Makengo—is a man who lives by the Waswahili maxim that utajiri wa mtu ni watu. You’re a wealthy man when you’re surrounded by hordes of fellow human beings.
Which is why the wedding reception for old Makengo’s son is being held at this expansive and expensive hall which is decorated in a princely way. Ni hatari!
As Makengo soon underscores in a brief speech, this massive reception in which everybody is drinking and eating without limit, isn’t about him; rather, it’s about the loving people whose generous contributions made it possible.
He counsels the groom’s siblings and indeed, all young guests who have graced the occasion, to value and cherish friendship.
It has been easy for me to reach this venue because its location is a mere walking distance from where I call kwangu. I’m welcomed with a bowl of mtori at the ground floor.
For uninformed, mtori is thin porridge made from blended banana mixed with beef soup. Mtori, originally a Chagga delicacy has now gone national and culinary artists embellish it with all manner of Swahili spices and result is wow!
The real fun, of course, is at the 6th floor. Everybody, it seems, has come in their best outfit.
The groomsmen and bridesmaids are dressed to kill, and their choreographed dance routines are stuff that could earn them a stage show contract with Diamond Platnumz Wasafi Band.
There are hundreds of us, and the organisers are clearly ready. There are two serving bays and everybody is free to fill their plates on their own—with chicken even! Clearly, this guest in front of me didn’t know the food choice was so wide, and, poor guy, he ended up over-served himself!
You should see the embarrassed look on his face as he walked to his table with a food pile the size of Mountain Kilimanjaro! My plate is somewhat over-filled too, mostly with chicken, but I don’t care. You don’t get a chance to serve yourself with unlimited chicken and misuse the opportunity. Not me!
The wahudumu handling our drinking needs keep coming to check out if I wanted some more.
It was like they couldn’t notice that, right before me, were four bottles that are yet to be opened! My mouth is too full to utter the word yes, so I just nod to that effect.
This is what I call a good wedding reception, I tell myself as I work on the food that I wash down with gulps of Castro Laiti.
I leave before midnight without saying good night to anybody, a Kasichana cleverly hidden in the breast pocket of my mtumba blazer.
