Holding Up the Sky (34 page)

Back at Jan Smuts airport we were greeted by family and friends who had once again organised kombis to the airport. This time we were a married couple, though the family would refuse to recognise our union until it was made official on African soil in less than two days time. There were more hugs and kisses and more stares from the astonished white travellers looking on.

With one day left before the African wedding, Caleb's home was like a beehive, each member of the family seeming to know what to do without being told. Not long after we arrived, a bakkie pulled up in front of the house. Amazingly, in the cab at the back was a large bull, struggling to be free. While I was still standing by the front door, mouth agape at the sight, Khumo and my new sisters-in-law came rushing over to say that it was not right for the bride to see the bull slaughtered and it was time for us to go. I was torn between relief and curiosity but had no say in the matter as they whisked me off to Khumo's house where there was a reprieve from the frenetic activity, and Khumo and I had a chance to catch up.

Khumo was to be my matron of honour and it was her job to organise the wedding party the following day. I was yet to discover the level of complexity that would be required, but Teboho had explained it was important to have your closest friends in these types of roles rather than as best man or bridesmaids. Our bridal party consisted of Joe's girlfriend Sara, whom I had got to know during our trip to Namibia the year before, Dumi, whose uncle we visited in Kopela with the youth group, Daddy, an old friend of Teboho's who had recently returned from the ANC school in Tanzania and my dear friend and housemate Justin, because I insisted. Moss, Joe and Beans, also fresh from Tanzania, were charged with overseeing the activity at the wedding ceremony and the reception. The family would take care of lunch which was to be held at Caleb's house before the reception in the evening.

No sooner had Khumo and I got comfortable than Teboho's sisters Silwane (alias Custard) and China arrived for the final fittings with the bridesmaids. As a wedding gift, China had made the outfits for both the Australian and the South African weddings. As she unpacked, she revealed a special surprise of new outfits for Teboho and me. We had not planned to change between the wedding and the reception as most African couples do, in order to keep things simple. But China wanted us to do things properly and now presented me with a beautiful dress, resplendent in red and gold. While I was trying it on, I heard Sara and Dumi arrive and soon the house was full of women in various states of undress and others cooing over the beautiful outfits. I stood there for a moment and thought about how wonderful it was to feel welcomed into a community in this way, to become part of another family.

African community living is open hearted, full of customs, yet none of it is forced or rigid. Mama had told me that
lobola
is more than a payment for the bride. Gifts of an equal value are given to the groom's family and to the couple themselves. These gifts serve to bind two families together, which is what a marriage really is. Because of this, Mama was saddened by the fact that, though we were getting married, she was yet to meet my parents. It would take some years for this final piece to fall into place for her, but when they did eventually meet, the fondness and mutual respect that grew was worth the wait.

After the dresses had been checked and final adjustments made, Silwane and China felt it was safe for us all to go back to Caleb's. It would be dark soon and time for the visiting family and guests to be fed. Seeing how many mouths there were to feed, Teboho and I slipped away to where we had planned to spend the night. We had been offered a bed by another friend of Teboho's by the name of Lekgoa, which means ‘white person'. While Lekgoa was certainly not white, he was quite fair skinned for an African man. Lekgoa and his wife were putting us up in their home in the nearby township of Kagiso. Mohlakeng now resembled Bethlehem on the night Jesus was born.

The next morning after a hearty breakfast, we packed up our wedding outfits and made the drive back towards Mohlakeng.

In the inclusiveness that characterised Teboho's family, the invitation to the South Africa wedding came from all branches of the extended family–Teboho's father's side, Mama's second husband and Ma Ellen's. Given my previous experience with township weddings, I knew better than to ask why the venue for the church had not been included, the real celebration only starting with the food at Caleb's house.

Teboho dropped me off at Khumo's house so that I could change. Given the noise emanating from inside, I suspected I was not the first in the bridal party to arrive. The numbers of the household had swollen considerably since the day before with Khumo's sisters and their children having arrived from Soweto. As I entered the house I heard the familiar voices of Jacques and Margie. Running towards the kitchen, I suddenly realised who they were talking to– it was Elaine, my friend from Canada and her husband Anthony. They had decided that my wedding was a good enough reason for a trip to Africa. Grabbing each other, we jumped up and down in delight. I was deeply touched that she had come so far to see me. Jacques and Margie had driven up from 'Maritzburg the day before, collecting Elaine and Anthony along the way. With Justin in the bridal party, and his parents and sister also joining us, bringing with them Matt's father Graham who was in South Africa making a documentary, there would be a number of white faces in the township this day.

Ironically, Graham was the only person to take part in both weddings; he was introduced as my ‘uncle' and asked to speak on behalf of the Australian family. He agreed to the twist in our relationship with a twinkle in his eye, knowing that being introduced as my ex-boyfriend's father would be awkward.

After tea and coffee and a plateful of biscuits, we got down to the business of getting ready. Khumo was wearing a loose fitting white kaftan with gold embroidery, well suited to the fuller figured, happily married woman. Khumo's sisters explained that my body size post the wedding would be a direct indicator to all those around me of the happiness of my marriage; should I fail to fill out, not only would my husband find me bony and unattractive but questions would be asked about his success as a husband and provider. Given my family's genetic predisposition to leanness, this didn't bode well for Teboho.

We were all dressed and ready to head off to the church when the phone rang. We were forty-five minutes late already, but I seemed to be the only one who was concerned. Caleb was phoning to tell us that Khumo's brother Caesar, who was to be the minister at the church ceremony, had not yet arrived. Khumo told Caleb we would wait half an hour and then come across. We arrived at the church an hour later, with me more than a little agitated. Apparently guests at the church had been kept entertained by the youth group who were happy to sing for their supper. Once we stepped out of the car, the excitement of hundreds of people milling outside was infectious and I quickly forgot the delays. Caesar had just arrived, almost two hours late. We later discovered that his car had broken down and he was forced to hitchhike all the way from Soweto.

News of our arrival quickly spread and the road became choked with neighbours wanting to see this strange thing–a white woman marrying a black man in a township. Khumo was forced to walk in front of us and clear a path to the church doors. Despite the interest, the church itself was only half full, most people content to wait outside for the ceremony to finish. As we entered, the congregation rose to its feet and, despite its relatively small numbers, the song they sang seemed to shake the foundations. We danced down the aisle–with no rehearsal being required this time–as the guests clapped and swayed in time to the music. I noticed the delighted yet slightly bemused faces of our white guests who were not quite able to find the beat.

Soon Teboho and I were standing together before the altar, Caesar looking remarkably composed. As we were technically already married, he changed the order of service slightly to bless the union before giving a short sermon on the importance of marriage. What followed was a waterfall of singing that carried us down the aisle and out onto the street. With Khumo in the lead, the dancing snaked its way down the street, seemingly with half of Mohlakeng joining in. The numbers had increased while we were inside the church, with well over five hundred people now cramming the streets. Once we had danced our way about a hundred metres down the road, Khumo turned us and we began to make our way back up, with the large crowd providing song after song in celebration.

After almost an hour of dancing, we were shepherded back into the cars: it was time to join the feast. I had been surprised that so few of the family were at the church service and asked Teboho about it in the car. He explained that the real party was happening at Caleb's house and everyone would have been needed there, even Mama. As we rounded the corner into Caleb's street, I suddenly understood what he meant: the entire street was packed to capacity. There must have been close to six hundred people who had long since begun without us. As the cars could proceed no further, we parked them on the corner. Eager face after eager face turned towards us and the high-pitched ululation rang out: ‘
He le le, he le le
'. Once more the singing began, deep baritones rumbling and the harmonies ringing in my ears.
‘Makoti ke dinako. A jiga jiga. Makoti wa kgana na'
, Makoti, now is the time. You won't refuse? I took that as a rhetorical question.

At the head of the wedding party, Khumo had been replaced by two of the neighbours, each carrying a broom, one with a white cloth attached to the end. Before I could ask Teboho what these were for, their use became apparent. The neighbour holding the cloth raised it in the air like a fag to mark our passage and the other used hers to strike at the legs of the revellers so as to make a space for us to pass. Even being struck in the leg did not deter our guests from their singing and dancing. With the relentlessness of a lava flow, we finally reached Caleb's house. I saw Mama waving from the side of the house, still holding a large wooden spoon in one hand and cloth in the other. While Jacques and Margie, Elaine and Anthony had joined the dancing, I spotted Justin's parents in front of the house, looking overwhelmed yet intrigued. I turned back to catch Justin's eye but he had also spotted them and was waving his greeting, knowing that a shout would be useless.

As we passed Caleb's house, our two broom-wielding friends turned the parade and swung it back on itself. From under my veil I tried to ask Teboho if we were going to enter the marquee that had been erected on the small patch of lawn, but he just winked and pulled me around with him. We seemed to be heading back the way we had come. We passed a row of porta-loos, half a dozen small boys balancing on the electricity meter to get a better look and the occasional face of someone I recognised. Soon we were being ushered back into the cars and whisked away.

‘Where are we going now? I thought it was time to eat.'

‘It is,
MoRatua
, my love, but first we have to change. That was just a sneak preview.'

Twenty minutes later, Teboho and I emerged from Moss and Khumo's in our red and gold outfits, feeling like African royalty, and were then driven with the rest of the bridal party back to Caleb's house for the real celebrations to begin.

After dancing our way back down to the marquee, we and the rest of the bridal party were seated at the head table. At the next table were all the guests of honour: Justin's parents, Elaine and Anthony, Graham, Jacques and Margie and Cliff and Eileen, an American couple who worked with Caesar at the church in Soweto. There were also seats for Caesar, Moss and Khumo, but they were nowhere in sight.

I later discovered that Caesar and Moss were dealing with a photographer. It was only after the bridal party had arrived at Caleb's house that Caesar realised the man snapping hundreds of photos was not the family photographer but a journalist from the
Sunday Times
. The family photographer had phoned the night before to explain that, due to a death in his family, he would not be able to come. However, this message was not relayed to anyone at the church so no one knew to question the man at the time. It was only Caesar's exposure to the media that prevented the entire event being open to the press. Moss and Caesar chased the photographer off with threats of legal action against the newspaper, causing them to arrive a little late at the table. Given that it was now almost three o'clock, well past the midday lunch promised on the invitation, I couldn't imagine anyone was particularly concerned about their late arrival. Perhaps this is another reason wedding invitations are not used at African weddings.

Outside the marquee, I saw long queues of guests crisscrossing the road as they waited patiently for plates of food. The most important criteria for a happy guest appeared to be the presence of meat and the weight of the plate. No one cared for elegant table settings, floral arrangements or even where they sat, for most stood and ate in circles of friends on the street. The elderly were supplied with chairs, having plates brought to them by young children, and sat happily sunning themselves while catching up on news of old friends and family.

Teboho and I and our seated guests were fed first, with Teboho being brought a plate that contained a single massive vertebra from the bull that had been slaughtered the day before. Elaine leant across and asked me if that was an important wedding tradition.

‘No', I replied, sorry to disappoint. ‘Teboho adores meat off the bone and his brothers are having a joke with him.'