By A True-ish Tale of Food, Fear, and Fast Feet
It all began on a sunny Saturday when I saw a convoy of cars, cows, and confused-looking groomsmen pass by our gate. My stomach growled instantly. My aunt had left nothing in the sufuria except the smell of yesterday’s ugali. So, when I overheard a boda guy whisper, “Hiyo harusi ni ya kwa kina Kiptoo, nyama ni mingi,” my soul left my body and followed the aroma.
Now, was I invited? No.
Did that stop me? Also no.
I put on my “wedding camouflage”: a white blouse (borrowed), a leso (questionably clean), and confidence (self-generated). I strolled into the compound like I owned a goat that had just been paid as bride price.
The first test? The aunties on plastic chairs.
They scanned me from head to toes like airport security. One of them narrowed her eyes and asked,
“Wewe ni upande wa nani?”
I panicked. I had no “upande.”
But years of watching Papa Shirandula had prepared me.
I smiled and said, “Upande wa mama yake cousin ya best friend ya bibi harusi.”
She blinked slowly, nodded like she understood (but I know she didn’t), and moved aside.
I was in.
Phase Two: The food.
I approached the tent like a lion hunting ugali. I tried to act casual, but my eyes were locked on the nyama choma like a sniper. Just as I reached the food table, a woman barked,
“Ulikuwa umetolewa number gani?”
What number?! I didn’t even have a spoon!
I laughed nervously and replied, “Number ya moyo. Moyo wangu umechagua kuku.”
She wasn’t impressed. I was almost chased, but a distracted emcee shouted,
“Wageni kutoka Eldoret msichoke!”
That was my cue. I yelled, “Ndiyo tuko hapa!” and rushed to sit with strangers who looked equally confused but too full to ask questions.
I ate like I had just been rescued from a hunger strike.
Now, just when I thought I had survived, trouble came in form of a drunk uncle. He stood up mid-speech and shouted, “Kuna watu hapa hawakualikwa lakini wanakula kama ma-in-laws!”
My spoon paused mid-air.
Eyes turned.
Sweat broke.
I stood up, pretended to get a call, whispered “Hallo? Eeeh niko kwa harusi ya Kiptoo… heh?! Ambulance?” then dramatically dashed out like I was going to donate blood.
I ran all the way home with my stomach full, my pride dented, and my respect for Nandi weddings restored.
Lesson learned?
Next time, I’m coming with a gift and a printed invite.
