Weddings

When I got back from a weeklong Peace Corps training in Bamako, I discovered that wedding season was in full swing in my village. In Mali, marriages are almost always arranged. It is very costly for the family of the groom, because he has to present the bride’s father with large amounts of kola nuts. Kola nuts are a traditional stimulant – they are chewed and spit out. As a gift, they are a symbol of respect.

Anyway, the reason that weddings all happen in April and May in my village is that our main cash crop is potatoes. Potatoes are planted in December and January, and once they are harvested and sold, families can repay their loans and use the leftover money to build houses and pay for weddings.

Weddings always take place on Thursdays in my village, and last Thursday was the first time I was around to see it. The wedding is composed of two parts – a civil ceremony at the mayor’s office in the morning, and a religious ceremony at the mosque after the two o’clock prayer.

Early in the morning, the brides are brought to the CSCOM, where the matrone examines them to determine if they are already pregnant. One was. The matrone explained to me that the civil ceremony would still take place and the bride would still move in with her husband’s family, but the Muslim wedding couldn’t happen until after she had given birth.

Around 10 the wedding parties began arriving at the mayor’s office. They drive across the village in a caravan of motorcycles, honking as loudly as possible. (This is fine in a village but I’ve seen it in larger cities where it’s technically illegal because it’s so dangerous). At the mayor’s office the brides and grooms and their various family members crowded into the conference room. Many children from the village gathered in the courtyard, hanging in the windows to watch the proceedings.

The couples were lined up in the order they would be married. When it was their turn, they sat at the head of the table next to the two officials from the mayor’s office who did the paperwork. They would record the names of the bride and groom and their parents, date of birth, and which village they came from. They recorded the dowry (always 10,000 CFA, or about $20, to be paid to the bride), and whether the couple chose the options of polygamy of a polygamous or monogamous marriage – except I asked both the secretary and my host father, the former mayor, if anyone had ever chosen monogamous, and they both said no.

As the brides waited, they covered their faces with veils. I eventually realized this was because most of them were crying. When it was their turn, they had to take the veil off, and they all managed to stop crying except one, who cried through the whole process This was somewhat alarming to me because crying is regarded very differently here – it’s really serious, and in general, adults just don’t. Although these girls were all 16-18 years old.

The grooms each had a folded piece of cloth over one shoulder, and I was told that the bride’s father’s older brother gives that to him as a sign of his approval.

Anyway, once all the info was written down, the official would ask the groom three times if he wanted to marry the bride, then ask the bride three times if she wanted to marry the groom. He also said some stuff about polygamy, then asked both if they agreed to polygamy. When he was done, the bride, groom, and a witness for each signed the documents (actually fingerprinted because most were illiterate). The witnesses were not their parents, who did not come to the mayor’s office, but a brother of their fathers. Then the couple went into the mayor’s office, where I was told the mayor gives them advice before they leave.

Afterward, celebrations are held at both the bride’s and groom’s families’ houses. I knew the family of one of the brides (from a nearby village), so at noon I went to their house. Groups of men and women were sitting separately, and people came by to greet the family and say blessings. And eat. After the 2:00 prayer, I went with the women to a hut outside the mosque, where we waited fro people to emerge from the religious ceremony. When they came out we went back to the house, so I don’t really know what happened.

Then I went home. In the evening I was having dinner at my host family’s, and a neighbor came over with the head of the cow they had slaughtered for a wedding in their family. They gave me a chunk of the meat, and I have to say, while I was mentally repulsed, it was delicious. It clearly wasn’t brain and I didn’t ask any questions. My strategy with meat in Mali is to just remind myself that it won’t poison me, so whatever it is, don’t over think it.