My Xhosa Wedding

It is nice to be accepted as a foreigner by individuals. It is even nicer to be accepted and loved by a whole community.

Entembeni has been my refuge from school and a surprisingly Western lifestyle for several months now. I found it after a Rotarian brought the American students to share lunch with the elderly people who patronize the drop in center during the weekdays. The name means “place of hope” in Xhosa and as the director, Grace, tells visitors and members alike - it is a place of hope for all who enter its doors. The connection between Entembeni’s name and professed goals is refreshingly apparent when tasting the fruits of the outdoor vegetable and flower gardens maintained by the residents, hearing the melodic singing that prepares one for the prayers said before the meals, and laughing at the impromptu dancing when one of the residents remembers with jubilee how to work the CD player donated by the last American volunteer. I love this place and have often referred to it as my favorite place in Grahamstown.

My first couple times volunteering at Entembeni was on the skirt tails of Jeremy – an ideal American exchange student working on his undergraduate degree. The word ideal is optimal of Jeremy’s experience in South Africa because during his four months in country he left no experience by the wayside. Every traditional ceremony, every teensy morsel of South African food, every political conversation or protest, every word in Xhosa that came rushing past him - he lunged at with full force and gripped tightly as best he could until they became a part of him and his experience. Seven years younger than myself I was in awe of this young man, as well as encouraged and grateful when he joyful accepted my company on this bit of his adventure – traveling into the township of Josa to spend time and serve food to the elderly.
The first couple of visits everyone was friendly to me as I cherished the slowness of the afternoons away from school– weeding in the garden, helping serve the food, and occasionally helping clean up afterwards. For the most part the people were kind – as they always are – but I was really of no consequence. The most important part of me was that I was a friend of Sipho’s (Jeremy’s Xhosa identity) and thus should be loved as he was. However, curiosity concerning our relationship quickly spread as people noticed the engagement ring on my finger. “Ooooo,” one resident shouted with delight when we arrived out of a taxi. “Married?,” she questioned moving her eyes inquisitively back and forth from Jeremy and myself. “No” we responded in unison laughing at the assumption. Confused she then grabbed my left hand and started gently twisting the ring on my finger. I tried to explain: My husband (there really is no word for fiancé) is in the U.S.; I miss him a lot, but he is coming soon; when he does I will bring him to you so that you can meet him. Just like that I had made a promise to bring Dave to this beautiful place and introduce him to my weekly lazy afternoon ritual of weeding, singing, dancing, and serving.

As the time grew closer to his arrival I - for good reason - became more excited and the residents could tell. They would ask, “how much longer?,” then respond “woo hoo!” In the meantime I had been given a Xhosa name like Sipho (Jeremy). I was called Nomhle which means beauty. Coincidently I was given the name by another woman named Nomhle who also claimed that I was now her daughter and that I should introduce Dave (my fiancé) to her first. The director (Grace) and the cook (Connie) collectively decided that the residents would sing Xhosa wedding songs for us and this scheme developed as the time of his arrival drew closer to include aspects of a traditional wedding ceremony. Sipho was bummed that he would already be on a plane back home and would miss this aspect of Xhosa culture. I promised to send him pictures.

Not being as tenacious in my cultural studies as my young friend, I had no idea what to expect when we arrived that day. In addition, it was six days into Dave’s two week visit and for the past two days he had been in bed with food poisoning. He was hesitant to visit – mostly because he was reluctant to be so far from a bed – but I convinced him otherwise. When we arrived all of the cultural experiences we had missed from him being sick in bed were forgotten as women sang and danced in traditional clothing and painted faces (To explain- we had coincided our visit to during the famous Grahamstown Arts Festival - known to be the largest of its kind in Africa – but missed all but one of the shows we had reserved).

Dave politely introduced himself to all of the members of Entembeni – mastering the South African handshake of initially shaking one’s hand normally, then twisting your hand to shake with thumbs down and finally returning one’s hand to original position to shake normally finishing the greeting. He hugged Grace and Connie and sat by to wait for his bride to get adorned in some traditional clothing after the meal was served. Two of the teenage girls from the community who had volunteered with Sipho and myself for a couple weeks showed up to serve as my bridesmaids, and Noxolo - my beading friend – came as well to witness the celebrations.

The ceremony began with a greeting from the elderly men of the group. Tata Mkhulu – the 97 year old grandfather – was in charge of this part. After smiling at Dave and I while holding both our hands, he delegated the blessing to his number two – the slightly more talkative 93 year old grandfather. This man praised us on our transition and prayed for our future in a concise and non-elaborative blessing – also holding our hands while doing so. I then returned to my dressing room only to emerge again – hair wrapped and blanket tied around my waste and my head down led by my bridesmaids who were cued by the beautiful and clear throated singing of Qongqongthwane, a traditional wedding song. From that point I was paraded around the room - looking up only to be told to keep my head down by my bridesmaids – to the point where I came to a blanket on the floor on which I was indicated to sit. Dave was invited to sit on a chair next to my blanket and the women’s part of the ceremony continued. Three women came and gave us advice about our marriage. This was my favorite part. Each looked fervently into our eyes, shook their hands, waved their arms, and told us things like:
“If you fight – talk – don’t hit (looking briefly to Dave) and don’t run away (now redirecting their attention on me);”
“You will want to run back to your mother’s house, but that isn’t good – stay and talk and pray – if you have a problem - you talk;”
“No divorce. Married, no divorce. Love each other and stay – even when it is hard – then you will be happy in the end.”

After the advice was given – in my mind a perfect parallel to a homily given by the reverend at wedding – it came time to engage in another parallel to Western tradition and change our names. However, in Xhosa culture it is the first names that are changed, not the last. Thus, although I had cherished being called beautiful every day, this privilege was revoked and a new title was given to signify the passage from singleness to marriage. My name became Masilakhe which means “to build.” The ladies said that this was to represent my transition as I build a home and family with Dave. Dave was also given a new name - Winayi - meaning “winner.” According to the ladies this is because he won my affections and me as a wife – a particularly interesting coincidence understood by those who knew the story of Dave and my dating history and courtship.

After our names were changed, Connie and Grace – my two “African mamas” danced a bit with me and took pictures. We posed with elderly men and the elderly women in positions similar to those we will take in five months and smiled with one another – holding hands. My heart stirred with joy at the prospect of marrying this wonderful man (who shows up half-sick to a ceremony in the Township because he knows how much the place means to me) but also at the love that exists between and within communities. My travels have often heightened my longing for home and loved ones; but at the same time they have made the larger aspect of community and connection more evident. It is simply amazing to be accepted and loved by communities – especially those so seemingly different (yet so similar) than one’s own.