I won’t be remarrying my English wife anytime soon. Yes folks, the wagon of whirlwind wedding ceremonies (four have already fallen off) screeched to a stop on Easter weekend. Readers of this column will remember that in the article titled “Four Weddings and Counting,” I wrote the following: “However, I owe my parents and the town where I was born two wedding ceremonies: the traditional wedding and the white wedding.”
Not stupid, I didn’t have the other two prominent wedding ceremonies over the weekend, all at once, but something of Shakespearean proportions (except it wasn’t a tragedy) happened while I was visiting my family in Zululand. Let’s just say that for now, my family is no longer looking forward to the two outstanding wedding ceremonies. Don’t jump ahead and pronounce that perhaps sanity has prevailed. I have learned to be extremely cautious when dealing with my parents.
Such was the story. We spent the recent Easter weekend with my parents in Ulundi, in the northern part of the KwaZulu-Natal province. The city of Ulundi, in the heart of Zululand, is nestled between majestic hills and the rugged valleys of the White Umfolozi River. The former capital of the Zulu Kingdom, Ulundi straddles Route 66, between Nongoma and Melmoth. We arrived on Friday afternoon. Our trip to Ulundi was an ordinary courtesy visit to see my family. In tow I had my English wife, a mixed-race daughter, and a son born to a Xhosa-speaking mother. My people are now used to seeing a white woman among them, so it’s no longer an event worth gossiping about.
However, as a well-bred Zulu boy, I sent some money to my mother so that she could buy the ingredients needed to brew the traditional IsiZulu beer known as Umqombothi. This was a small gesture from me to the ancestors to acknowledge her presence in my life. So what better way than to give them something to drink and have a good time. There was no usual slaughter of a beast or goat for that matter. This visit was meant to be as routine as possible. It turned out to be the opposite.
First of all, on Saturday, my wife first walked into the Mncube kitchen with the sole intention of playing makoti (girlfriend) and therefore that meant cooking for the in-laws. This has taken him about 16 long years. I had decided a week before our visit that this was the time and place for my wife to break with tradition once and for all. You see in my family tradition, unless the bride has been officially introduced to the ancestors through the slaughter of a beast, she is not allowed to perform makoti duties, including cooking. Despite the spirit of defiance on my part, there was another snag. There were a total of 16 mouths to feed.
However, my wife took the task of cooking like a duck in the water. After an epic six-hour cooking session with a malfunctioning electric stove, she delivered food to everyone. I patted him on the back for a job well done. My parents remained silent about the break in tradition. For the past 16 years my wife has been treated as a visitor and served meals at set times. On Sunday the cooking session had to be repeated. Of course this was now mundane to my wife.
But, something monumental was in the offing. As I was sitting outside one of the cabins and passing the time sharing jokes with my mom, other family members, and the hangers-on. Suddenly, my father joined us. He seemed apprehensive. I witness the perspiration running down his neck. Immediately, he demanded that all my family members be summoned to where we were sitting to join us. I offered them a reprieve for saying my wife and daughter were busy cooking. My mother also chimed in to say it wasn’t necessary. My father would not accept any of that. He yelled at my mother. Everyone had to come because they wanted to do something very important. Feeling that I was not going to win the battle let alone the war, I ordered a random boy to go and call my wife and daughter. My son was already sitting with us. They descended on the place at the same time. I didn’t make any eye contact with my wife for fear that she would ask me what was going on. I was not the wisest.
My father, in his petulant way, didn’t talk or exchange jokes. He got to work. He matter-of-factly announced that he was already behind on his assigned task of talking to Amadlozi about my side of the family. In Zulu, Amadlozi means ancestors. We refer to Idlozi (singular) – Amadlozi (plural): means human spirit or soul of the deceased. As it is not his will, he moved a few meters away from us to be close to Isibaya (kraal) and started like a burning house Ukuthetha idlozi. Ukuthetha idlozi is literally “to scold”. Zulu historians argue that Ukuthetha idlozi linguistically gives the initial impression of an aggressive relationship between ancestors and descendants. In the practice is not like that. The literal English translation is misleading. Ukuthetha idlozi is an expression that implies something other than scolding: it is praying to them (not to be confused with religious prayer), it is like a senior lawyer’s prayer before a judge. In its traditional meaning, Ukuthetha idlozi rather refers to the communication between the ancestors and their descendants. You are basically telling them what they need to know and possibly making special requests. We treat the dead like the living, except that we place a higher value on our relationship with them. We are Zulu, that’s how we get around.
After a beautiful rendition of Izithakazelo meaning praises associated with a particular descent group (in this case Mncubes) in which the ancestors of the clan are also referenced, my father proudly reported the following: “I report to you MaZilakatha (Mncube praise name) that uBhekisisa , the son of MaMlambo (my mother’s maiden name) is now married. He has two children. I ask you to take care and protect his new family. We pray for their good health, wealth and peace. My apologies for telling you this now. It happened a while ago.”
My father should have performed this Ukuthetha idlozi ritual in 2008 when I got married. However, the enthusiasm with which he took on the task, albeit nine years later, made me laugh. He even spread the tradition of burning Impepho, which is a kind of small sweet-smelling perennial plant (Doke et al 1990: 658). Impepho is used to burn as an offering to the spirits of the departed. It opens communication with the ancestors and makes any request, report or sacrifice acceptable. It is normally a precursor to Ukuthetha idlozi. I cared less. He made me happy to hear my father utter the words “uBhekisisa now she is married”.
Dear reader, it has come to pass that the proverbial English wife, Professor D., is now officially attached to my Zulu ancestors. By all accounts, the message to the ancestors was accepted. In simple terms, it means that my wife has been accepted as a bride (Makoti) by the Mncube clan after the official report to Amadlozi. This is despite the fact that there was no sacrificial killing of a beast and subsequent traditional wedding. As you dear readers know: my wife refuses to have anything to do with a wedding ceremony where the slaughter of poor cows and goats happens anyway. Since my father relented and introduced my wife to the Amadlozis, it means that she is officially considered a daughter of the Mncube clan. She now she can milk the cows, cook and basically my family sends her out on errands like a duly married wife. Unfortunately, in reality, this means that there is no prospect of any other wedding ceremony.
