AYISHA WAS THE first of us girls to marry. She was to marry a man from Lomé named Abass. What a celebration that was!
Weddings can last one to four days, depending on what the family customs are. Weddings in my family traditionally lasted the whole four days, from Thursday to Sunday. The wedding preparations often begin well in advance, practically the day the prospective groom’s family visits the prospective bride’s family to ask permission for the couple to marry, which usually follows fairly quickly after the two have met. We don’t date in our culture. Muslims don’t anyway. Couples fall in love and decide to marry in the same fashion that my parents did – that is, if they come from families that allow them to choose their own partners. Some marriages are completely arranged by the parents.
It’s more customary these days, however, for a young man to select his bride. As happened with my father, he’ll see a woman who captures his fancy and start watching her. Maybe he’ll make a point of going to the market on the days he knows she’s likely to be there. She may or may not realize she’s being watched, may or may not be watching back. Eventually, the young man will approach the young woman and say some version of what my father said to my mother through her friend: ‘I’ve been watching you. I really like you. I’d like to marry you.’ If she doesn’t share his feelings, she’ll say, ‘I’ll think about it.’ She won’t say, ‘Well, I don’t want to marry you.’ She’ll be polite. Each time he approaches her, she’ll say the same thing – ‘I’ll think about it’ – until he gets the message that she’s not interested in him. If he wants her anyway and thinks her parents would give their consent even without hers, which many parents in my community would do, he’ll go around her directly to her parents. But most young men don’t do that. They only want a woman who wants them. If she’s clearly not interested, they back off.
If the woman indicates she is interested, the prospective groom will go home and tell his family he’s found the woman he wants to wed. If they don’t know her or her family, his parents will do some investigating to find out if she’s a good Muslim girl from a good Muslim home. Once they are satisfied with her suitability, the young man’s parents will send one of his brothers or sisters to the bride’s family to request a meeting. Although the emissary does not specify the reason for the meeting, if the parents have one or more daughters of marriageable age, they will know immediately what is at stake. The father will then go to his daughter or daughters: ‘Does anyone here know why this young man’s family would want to come calling?’
‘Yes, Daddy,’ one of the girls will say. ‘I told him to have his parents send someone to come talk to you’ – a clear indication of her interest.
In families like mine the parents may do a little prodding to make sure of their daughters’ feelings. With each of my sisters my father would tease her, asking: ‘Is this really the man you want? Do you really love him?’
My sisters, being shy, were embarrassed that my father would ask such a personal question, but he was serious as well.
‘You can say no, sweetheart. You don’t have to marry anyone you don’t love.’
Only when he was convinced that the match was her choice would he start looking into the suitability of the prospective groom and his family, doing the same kind of investigation that the young man’s parents had presumably done on ours.
Many parents won’t be so considerate of their daughter’s feelings. If the young man and his family are acceptable to them, they’ll issue an invitation to the parents to come negotiate the bride price – the mahr – and arrange the marriage without ever consulting the bride-to-be.
I don’t know how Ayisha or any of my other sisters met their husbands. I didn’t ask. At the time I didn’t care, for love and marriage were of no interest to me then. Weddings, however, interested me very much. They were my favorite celebrations of all.
I knew that a wedding was coming soon when a sister’s husband-to-be began visiting our house. That doesn’t happen until after the wedding date has been set. Once it’s set, the young man is permitted to come calling on his bride-to-be. They can sit and talk and laugh together, maybe share food from the same bowl. But they’re not allowed to go anywhere together, even with a chaperon. The man can go anywhere and do anything with any of his intended’s siblings – invite them out for ice cream, take them to a party. And the young woman can, in turn, keep company with his siblings outside the house. But the two lovers can see each other only when he comes to visit her.
This courtship period usually lasts a number of months, giving the couple a chance to get to know each other while the wedding itself is arranged. It takes time to arrange a wedding celebration of the size Ayisha and my other sisters had. Word has to go out to friends and relatives living in different countries, to allow plenty of time for travel. Food has to be bought and prepared. Music and entertainment and accommodations have to be arranged. It’s a lot of work and expense. Sometimes the groom’s family contributes something in addition to the mahr to help the bride’s family cover the costs, sometimes not, depending on what his family can afford. It’s traditional, however, for the groom to provide the paraphernalia for the ritual bridal bath: bucket, calabash, sponge, soap, candles, towel, bathroom slippers. Anything beyond that is optional.
My mother’s three surviving sisters were always the first to arrive after a marriage announcement went out. They came about two weeks before Ayisha’s wedding, from Benin and Nigeria, to help with the cooking and preparations. Ayisha worked, too, as usual, because she wanted to. Even my sisters and I pitched in. It was fun to be part of a houseful of women all running around cooking and cleaning and talking and laughing and getting more and more excited as the wedding approached. Although it was a lot of work, it felt more like a long party – an all-women’s party. During this time my father and brothers made themselves scarce. Weddings are women’s business.
The days of preparation passed happily, and then came Thursday, when the festivities really got started. My mother would do no work for the next four days, not even so much as getting up to answer the door. Neither would Ayisha. Until the end of the final day of the festivities, they were in kara, a period when no work was to be done. A tent had been set up in the courtyard for the evening’s entertainment. The drummers, singers, and musicians arrived after seven, and by eight the celebrating was under way. There was drink, music, and dancing. The women drank, and clapped along to the music and danced. Two by two they entered a circle of friends, neighbors, and relatives and danced for Ayisha, dancing their happiness and love for the new bride.
As is traditional, when the sun set, Ayisha hid herself in the house and all the women in the family began looking for her. When we finally found her, we threw a porridgelike mixture of laylay and water at her, getting it all over her face, hair, and clothes. She was such a mess! Then she showered and got dressed while the house and the tent filled with more and more women.
Once the dancing in the courtyard outside had reached a certain peak, one person would announce, ‘It’s time for the amariya to come and dance’ for Ayisha was still in the house. All eyes fixed on the doorway, until finally Ayisha appeared. A great cry went out as the bride, my beautiful sister, came out of the house and entered the circle, with her maid of honor.
And then Ayisha danced. My sister, who was usually too shy to dance in front of anyone, danced that night before all. As everyone began whooping and whistling and clapping, I watched transfixed. She was liquid. She was velvet. She was music itself. She was everything she was feeling at that moment, all her hopes and dreams for the life she was embracing and all her love for the life she was leaving behind. The moment she started to dance people began entering the circle to shower her with money, while her best friend and maid of honor hovered nearby, catching the money in a bowl as it fell. Ayisha looked so happy! And I was so happy for her, I thought my heart would burst. When the music ended, everyone broke into wild applause and Ayisha laughed and covered her face, suddenly shy again. Then she took her place of honor in the audience to enjoy the rest of the night’s dancing.
Friday night’s celebrations passed in much the same way. The groom doesn’t attend any of these festivities. His family may hold a separate, smaller celebration if they can afford it, but the groom is a mere phantom presence at the bride’s parties. Bride and groom don’t see each other until Sunday night, after they’re officially married, when she’s delivered to his house.
On Saturday morning the nachane arrived. She’s the old woman in our community who does all the ritual bathing of brides and new babies.
‘Good morning! Good morning! Where is the beautiful bride?’ she called out as she entered the house. After greeting Ayisha, the nachane led her to our food-storage room, where any accidental spills that occurred while she was applying the laylay dye wouldn’t matter. First the nachane mixed the laylay with water in a plastic bowl to make a porridgelike mixture. Then she put the laylay mixture on Ayisha’s hands and feet, and then wrapped them in plastic, like gloves and booties. Ayisha had to sit quietly for an hour or so, waiting for the dye to set. When the nachane decided it was time and removed the plastic, Ayisha’s hands and feet had been dyed solid red. As the dye dried, they turned dark black. A few years later, when Shawana and Asmahu had their weddings, a new laylay technique, a kind of stenciling, had become fashionable in Togo, and the nachane brought a young woman with her who knew how to do it. The woman cut thin slivers of adhesive bandaging and applied them in intricate designs to the hands and feet before the immersion in the dye. It took her forever, but the results were really elegant, Asmahu’s especially. When the strips were removed and the laylay had dried, it looked like someone had used a tiny brush to paint an intricate pattern of lilies all over Asmahu’s hands and feet. But since that art hadn’t come to Togo when Ayisha and Narhila got married, they both got solid black.
That night, Saturday night, there was more dancing, more eating. But Sunday’s celebration would be the most spectacular of them all. Nobody had to wake me up that morning. My eyes popped open well before dawn. This was it! The nachane returned to the house to give the bride her ritual bath. ‘Come with me, my beautiful girl,’ she said, taking Ayisha by the hand. ‘Come along now, don’t be shy.’ Ayisha was so shy! I followed them to the bathroom, but I wasn’t allowed to go in. The bath was private, just the two of them. Listening by the door, I could hear the nachane crooning to Ayisha and praising her beauty, ‘Traore! Traore!’ And then the water started running and I couldn’t hear anything else. When Ayisha finally emerged, her hair was wrapped in a scarf.
‘Ayisha! You’re wearing a scarf!’ I teased. Ayisha smiled an embarrassed smile.
The nachane, protective of her beautiful bride’s feelings, gave me a disapproving frown that was half playful, half serious. ‘Look at this girl!’ she said, meaning me. ‘What did you think, that a married woman would show herself bareheaded? Shame on you! Of course she’s wearing a scarf! Your sister is almost a married woman now.’ She wagged a finger at me. ‘And don’t you worry,’ she said as she took Ayisha by the hand and led her away. ‘You’ll be a married woman, too, before you know it.’
‘Oh no I won’t! I’m never getting married!’
The nachane laughed. ‘You say that now. But you’ll change your mind.’
‘No I won’t,’ I insisted, but the nachane and Ayisha just laughed at me.
The next step in the bridal ritual was the dressing and makeup. Some of Ayisha’s girlfriends and a few of our female cousins came to help my sisters and aunts with this part of the ritual. I could barely fit in the bedroom, it was filled with so many women, all there to make a fuss over the bride, help her dress, wrap her hair in an intricately tied turban to emphasize her beautiful face, and adorn her with jewelry and makeup. When the work of art was finally complete and everyone stood back to admire the effect, I got my first full view of my beloved sister Ayisha as a bride. I was struck dumb. I just stood there, staring and staring. Ayisha? Could this dazzling creature be my sister? I wouldn’t have believed it was possible for Ayisha to look more beautiful on Sunday than she had on the previous three days, but she did.
Something had happened in that room while the women were dressing Ayisha, some magic. This woman standing before me, smiling back at me, wasn’t just my sister Ayisha anymore. Always beautiful, she had been transformed into the most radiantly exquisite woman I had ever seen.
‘Ayisha?’ My voice was a whisper.
She turned to me, smiling her sweet, loving smile.
‘Fauzy?’ The vision spoke! She’d spoken to me!
‘Fauzy, would you mind bringing me a glass of water from the kitchen?’
Mind?! I was giddy with joy. Of all the people she could have asked, she’d chosen me!
Later that morning we all dressed up in our very best clothing, my mother, my father, my sisters and brothers, and me. The rest of the day was given over to an enormous party that spilled out of our compound and onto the street. The whole community was invited. There was food and drink and the guests exchanged soaps and packets of matches and other little gifts they brought with them to the party. Friends and relatives arrived from distant parts. Everyone who’d missed out on the previous three days of celebrating showed up on Sunday, as well as everyone who’d taken part in the previous celebrations. Sunday was also the big gift-giving day. My mother sat in her bedroom, looking as gorgeous as my father could ever desire, greeting a steady stream of friends, neighbors, and relatives, and accepting their gifts and good wishes on behalf of the bride. Meanwhile, the official religious marriage ceremony was being performed in the mosque, attended only by men.
As evening fell, the partying and celebrating went on and on. The stars came out. The moon rose. The music continued. And then came the sad part, for me: Ayisha’s departure. On Sunday night, after all the guests had gone home, Ayisha said goodbye to her family and left our house to go to her new home and family, Abass’s home and family. Ayisha, my Ayisha, was leaving. I cried. She hugged me and tried to console me.
‘Don’t cry, Fauziya. You should be happy for me.’
I was, but I was miserable for myself.
‘Come on now,’ she said. ‘I’m not leaving forever. We’ll still see each other. You know that.’
‘But you won’t be here! Who’ll take care of me? You always took care of me.’
She laughed. ‘I’m not abandoning you, Fauzy! You know I’ll always be there for you. But you’re getting to be a big girl now. You don’t need me the way you used to. You can take care of yourself.’
But I still wouldn’t stop crying.
‘Fauziya, Fauziya. Come on now. Do you want to make me sad on my wedding day?’
I pulled myself together and tried to be strong, for her. It was tradition, I knew. It was what had to happen. On Sunday night, the bride leaves her home and goes to be presented to the female head of her new husband’s family – his mother or aunt, or the first wife if she’s marrying into a polygamous household – before being delivered to the groom. She goes with nothing other than the clothes she is wearing, to symbolize that she is leaving everything from her old life behind. Her gifts, her clothes, and all the other things she needs are delivered the following Thursday or Friday, the day she formally begins her new life as a wife.
And so Ayisha left. I’d seen how happy she was, and wondered if the nachane could have been right about me: Was it possible that someday I, too, would feel what Ayisha was feeling that night? I couldn’t imagine it. But, watching her, I knew that she had found with Abass what my parents had found with each other.
In the years that followed all of my sisters married, one by one. Narhila would marry Sadque, who was from the Bassari tribe. Shawana married Mabruk, who is Kotokoli. Asmahu also married a man from the Kotokoli tribe, Awal. Each of my sisters was in love with the man she married, and each was joyous on her wedding day.
Maybe someday I’d find love, too, I would think as I watched my sisters go off with their new husbands. If that happened, then I, too, would marry. But if not, I wouldn’t marry at all. So I believed.