Stories
A Wife for Muusa
He had said Sunday night. I knew he had said Sunday night. Yet here he was, shuffling anxiously, with pleading eyes, on Saturday evening, just as I was finally relaxing after a long and tiring week, my feet up, the BBC World Service on in the background. Play of the Week would have to be forgotten tonight, in favour of a night drive on my motorbike into the African bush, to fetch a wife for Muusa.
One of the greatest honours you can bestow upon a friend in Fulani society is giving him the privilege of going to fetch your wife on the day your marriage is to finally reach its zenith. Most first Fulani marriages are arranged, agreed by parents without the concerned parties present - often while they are too young to know anything about it. The agreement is sealed in the kabbal ceremony before the local imam with the exchange of cola nuts, and the deal is done.
Marriage among the Fulani is more the linking of two communities than two individuals. The years that follow the kabbal ceremony involve various steps along the way to the actual consummation of the marriage and passage of the bride from her parent's community to that of her husband. The final step is the "fetching of the wife to the husband's home." And for Muusa and Fati, tonight was the night.
Muusa had asked me a few weeks before if I would let him bestow this honour upon me, clearly expecting me to jump at the chance. I was touched that he had asked, though a little unsure whether it was really the intimacy of our friendship that had drawn him, or the esteem of having his bride transported on the back of a shiny Yamaha 125 motorbike, rather than on Ousemane's donkey. But, fair enough. What are friends for?
He said Sunday night. On Saturday night, there I was, feeling the tiredness drain out of me, enjoying the vast starry night above me, and the distinctly English accents of the BBC, when Muusa turns up.
"It's tonight!"
Slowly realisation dawns. For the Fulani, the day begins and ends at nightfall, not at midnight. As Saturday ends with the setting of the sun, so Sunday begins. So Sunday night is actually the night that starts Sunday. If you see what I mean.
Since I had no idea where his bride's village was, and since I certainly had no hope of finding it at night, we agreed that I would take Muusa's brother, Amadou, with me, and he would lead me to Fati's village. I deposited Muusa back at his home, a round igloo-shaped hut, made of a stick frame with locally-woven mats tied on the outside. Preparations seemed to be under way, with various friends and family members bustling around killing sheep, cooking, and chatting. I picked up Amadou, and left them to it, wondering how far away our destination was, and how long it would be before we would be back.
As it turns out, the village was only a few miles away, and we arrived to find Fati's father apparently unprepared for the departure of his beloved daughter. After the usual protracted greetings, Amadou explained in rapid-fire Fulfulde why we were there, and then retired sheepishly, and rather suspiciously, I thought, to a tree far enough away not to get caught up in the subsequent dealings.
"A waddi caahorde naa?" (Have you brought the bride money?) Fati's father asked. I threw a desperate, and accusing glance at Amadou, who was sat under his tree, apparently intensely fascinated by something off in the opposite direction. Having never bartered for a wife before, and being totally unprepared, I drew a deep breath and launched in.
"Foti?" (How much?)
"Ujunaaji nay" (Twenty thousand). 20 000 CFA is about £ 20.
I feigned astonishment, having no idea whether this was a reasonable amount to ask, or an extortionate gamble on dad's part, but I reckoned that haggling would in any case be the normal response. It proved to be the right approach and, after a protracted and amicable argument, we settled on 7500cfa, about £ 7.50. Not bad for a wife.
But where was she...? All this time we had seen nothing of the blushing bride, and indeed she was nowhere to be found. The departure from her family and community is a traumatic event, and tradition requires that she show this by hiding from those who have come to take her away. Her friends help her to hide, and would even typically try and steal the donkey that would take her from them. Fortunately, in this tiny village, Fati's girlfriends lacked either the technical knowledge or the courage to steal the white man's motorbike.
When we eventually found Fati and brought her to the bike, she and her friends were wailing in demonstrated grief at her being torn from the bosom of her family. How much was heartfelt, and how much for show is a matter of conjecture, but the wailing suddenly stopped in favour of a more urgent discussion of genuine concern, of which the origin was not immediately apparent to me.
"Her friend must go with her," explained Amadou. "This is not a problem. They can both sit behind you on the bike. It is a big bike." He shrugged dismissively. Whatever. Problem happily resolved, the women began to wail again. With no space left for Amadou, and with me needing a guide, he opted to run in front of the bike, with me following on, carrying my two wailing women.
When we finally arrived back at Muusa's place, he had mysteriously disappeared, but with the arrival of the bride, the party began. Sadly, neither the bride nor groom took part. This would, after all, not be proper. Fati disappeared into a hut somewhere to the cries of "Jam naati! Jam naati!" (Peace has entered, peace has entered) And Muusa reappeared sometime the next day.
But under the stars the music was playing, the food was being prepared, and the dancing was beginning. The young men were eyeing appraisingly the girls who had come to welcome the new arrival.
And I slumped onto a mat finally to rest, and to enjoy the celebrations.