Wedding Blues

On Saturday we attended a wedding. I say we attended because we were not invited. We were at the wedding by default courtesy of our Mkubwa. One of Mkubwa’s “staff” was tying the noose...I mean knot. I call him “Staff” because even though we work at the same place we are not referred by that name. We have our own category- we are “workers”. And so Mkubwa’s staff and workers were to attend a staffers wedding. The staffers were attending both the church ceremony and the reception while we were to attend the reception.

Now when I say were attending the reception I am actually lying. The correct word is attending to the reception guests. In my line of work you never really know what your job description is. It is upon the discretion of the Mkubwa. You could be working in his warehouse as a do it all- meaning you do as you’re told -and the next day your work place is his residence which is in one of those places with lofty names ending in grooves, sides, palaces, courts and villas doing some gardening!

Our benevolent Mkubwa saw it in his own right and wisdom to invite us to the reception to do the decorations the sitting arrangements and everything else that the wedding planner had in mind. In short when the wedding planner said jump, we did not ask why? But our quick response was “how high madam?”

We were surprised to see the long winded green grass in the reception grounds. Contrary to our belief that there was a shortage of water in “The Green City in the sun” water sprinklers were ten feet apart spraying water on the green lawns. Some of us did a quick calculation of the distance from our homes to the reception to see if we could carry 20 to 50 litre containers to also irrigate our homes since water in The Estate now costs more than the kerosene we buy for our stoves. It was agreed that we would hire a cart pusher to do the job or better still hire only the cart and push it ourselves.
However, our wet dreams were quashed when Davy- we refer to him as “he that knows news, aka reporter” because he buys the Swahili version of a local daily everyday-informed us that the city council had banned use of hand pushed carts in the city. Down but not out we moved our morning agonies to the reception- we showered and did our toiletries in the confines of the huge bathrooms they had for their workers. Their bathroom size would put my “house” to shame in terms of size, lighting, colour...well everything. We also carried as much water as we could in our bodies and in very many small bottles.

All was not lost for come the Dee day we were also going to enjoy the reception. Those who could were to bring a date to the wedding. I did not have a tough time convincing my landlord’s house help to join me for this auspicious occasion. All I needed was to show her my invitation card. The one the wedding planner had said had mysteriously disappeared and would be deducted from our meagre salaries. It was an expensive card and must have cost a fortune to make it. I’m told it was handmade. I allowed my date to keep it on one condition, that she would not carry it to the reception. Without getting into details, I have since seen it prominently displayed beside her bed. It’s bound to make another disappearing act soon, very soon. Something about it giving...what’s that word...hints...yes, marital hints.

On the big day, the staffers among other guests arrived at the reception after the church ceremony in beautifully decorated cars making a long convoy. Mkubwa must have been impressed by our work. He patted me heavily on my back. Come to think of it, it could have been a push, a shove to move out of the camera focus. I don’t know. I hope it was the former. I did not think much of it then because I had someone grab my hand and pull me away from the cameras. It was my date. She looked stunning but that’s according to The Estate (that’s what we call our residence) standards. Her bright orange kitenge and green ,yellow flowered skirt would have made other men in The Estate look at me with envy but right then it made her stick out in the reception like a sore thumb. I held her hand and towed her towards the kitchen with many eyes looking at us, heads turning and the general feeling of discomfort.

“What are we going to do in the kitchen?” she asked when she noticed our destination.

“I want to check up on what the workers are doing. I’m in charge of the company’s workers helping out on the wedding.” I replied.

“Is that why all off you have the same uniform?” she continued. I did not know if it was an innocent question or some good use of sarcasm. I decided to tread carefully with a one word reply.

“Yes.” I responded.

I had hoped she would be able to mingle with other legitimately invited guests but with her outfit she would not stand a chance. The bridesmaid would tear her part for trying to steal the limelight from the bride; after all it was her day, right? She had not heard one of them call her a petticoat- wearing- bitch.They would then trace her presence to me and I would probably kiss my job goodbye. Much as I dislike my description less job I was not willing to lose it.

The food was good and the reception was fantastic at least that is what I was told by my fellow workers. We ate the food alright but I did not dare venture in to the reception again throughout its entirety for fear of being caught with an uninvited guest. My date is yet to fully comprehend the day’s events and no matter how much she prods I have been very evasive on the issue.

Despite the awful date I had, there is some good from all this. I have been told my skin is glowing and no it’s not because of my date, it’s because of good old soap and water, lots of water, that I had for the last one week while working at the reception.