I am not remarrying my English wife any time soon. Yes folks, the whirlwind wedding ceremonies wagon (four have already fallen) came to a screeching halt over 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 featured wedding ceremonies over the weekend all at once, but something of Shakespearean proportions did happen (except it wasn’t a tragedy) while I was visiting family in Zululand. Let’s just say that by now, my family is no longer looking forward to the two outstanding wedding ceremonies. Don’t go ahead and pronounce that perhaps sanity has prevailed. I have learned to be extremely cautious when dealing with my parents.
That was the story. We spent the recent Easter weekend with my parents in Ulundi, in the northern part of KwaZulu-Natal province. The town 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 call 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 is no longer an event worth gossiping about.
However, as a well-behaved Zulu boy, I sent my mother some money so 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 fun. 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 walked into the Mncube kitchen for the first time 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 slaying of a beast, she cannot perform makoti duties, including cooking. Despite the spirit of defiance on my part, there was another hiccup. There were a total of 16 mouths to feed.
However, my wife took up the task of cooking like a duck to 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 breaking of tradition. For the past 16 years, my wife has been treated as a visitor and has been served meals at set times. On Sunday the cooking session had to be repeated. Of course, this was now mundane for my wife.
But, something monumental was in sight. As I sat outside one of the cabins and passed the time sharing jokes with my mom, other family members, and the parasites. Suddenly my father joined us. He seemed apprehensive. I witness the perspiration running down his neck. Immediately, he demanded that all of my family members be summoned to where we were sitting to join us. I offered them a reprieve to say that my wife and daughter were busy cooking. My mother also chimed in to say that 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 call my wife and daughter. My son was already seated with us. They descended on the place at once. I didn’t make any eye contact with my wife for fear she would ask me what was going on. I was not the wisest.
My father, in his petulant way, did not speak or exchange jokes. He got to work. He casually announced that he was already behind in 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 near Isibaya (kraal) and started like a house on fire Ukuthetha idlozi. Ukuthetha idlozi is literally “to scold”. Zulu historians argue that Ukuthetha idlozi linguistically gives the initial impression of an aggressive relationship between the ancestors and their 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 the prayer of a senior lawyer before a judge. In its traditional meaning, Ukuthetha idlozi rather refers to the communication between the ancestors and their descendants. You’re 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’re Zulu, that’s how we get around.
After a beautiful interpretation 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 inform 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 his good health, wealth and peace. My apologies for telling you this now. It happened a while ago.”
My father should have performed this ritual of Ukuthetha idlozi 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 perennial plant with a sweet smell (Doke et al 1990: 658). Impepho is used to burn as an offering to the spirits of the deceased. 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 in which the slaughter of poor cows and goats happens in any way. Since my father relented and introduced my wife to the Amadlozi, 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 on errands like a duly married wife. Unfortunately, in reality, this means that there is no prospect of any other wedding ceremony.
