Last Friday, I was invited to a wedding.
I had no idea who the bride and groom were, where the wedding would be held, or even what kind of gift I should bring. A teacher who works at a nearby high school invited me as his “plus one”. I figured I could use the invitation as an opportunity to see further into the Basotho culture, maybe meet a few friends, and at the very least, I’d surely be eating free meat.
I also mentioned to you that I’d been feeling pretty homesick for the last couple of days. I needed to get out of the house. The last thing you want when feeling sad is to be cooped up inside of a dusty hut, all alone.
So I went.
I guess I didn’t prepare myself before coming to Africa expecting to be invited to weddings. I suddenly felt a familiar feeling from back in my college days, getting ready to go out on Friday nights...”I hate all of my clothes! I have nothing to wear!!” L The nicest dress I brought along was a low-cut black dress. And no heels. Who would imagine to be tromping around in heels in the African mountains?
My host sister and the teacher who invited me assured me that a black dress was OK to wear to the wedding (I coupled it with a cream colored cardigan, so it wouldn’t be too morbid-looking). But one step outside of my house yesterday morning before the wedding, and my host mother and other host sister insisted that I change. They said that I was going to this wedding as a representative of their family, and I needed to look hot.
Eventually, we settled on a floral skirt, black shirt, teal cardigan, and flats. My sister Mpoi tried to fix my hair as well, but speaking from experience, I have yet to find a Basotho who can handle my “white girl hair”… so I politely declined.
Soon, I understood why they were making such a fuss over my appearance.
The cars that came rolling into this wedding (after the line of 60 or so horses) were nicer than many cars I have seen in America. Mercedes, BMWs, and Range Rovers filled the parking lot. I’ve never seen so much wealth in one place in Lesotho.
I was hanging out in the parking lot with my teacher and three of his friends; we were listening to music with the trunk open and having a tailgate of sorts before the reception began (Oh, yes—we didn’t attend the actual ceremony; I was told it was long and boring, and the best part of the wedding is the reception, anyway. Hello, free food and drinks?!). One of them casually mentioned that this was a royal wedding, and my eyes bugged out of my head. Holy shit! Why didn’t I think this was a bigger deal, why didn’t I care to pick out a good outfit and do my makeup and actually care about this wedding!
After we were sure that we wouldn’t be the only ones sitting down waiting for the lunch to begin, we walked inside. This wedding was huge. I started to ask my friend how the bride and groom could know everyone in attendance, but I quickly bit my tongue—they didn’t know me.
We found a table towards the back of the wedding party’s tent, joining a group of prissy, grumpy South African girls who were friends of the bride. They sat around frowning and complaining about having to wait for the buffet line. At least they were speaking English. Eventually, we agreed to sneak up to the buffet line in pairs so we wouldn’t have to wait so long to eat. It didn’t matter, anyway; most of the food was picked over by the time that we made it to the front. I’m not complaining, though… it was better than what I would have had at home. We were served beef on the bone, chicken in a spicy sauce, some unidentifiable mixture of lentils and mashed potatoes, and a bell pepper, olive, and feta cheese salad. All of it was chased down by a glass of white wine, and then a glass of red wine, of course.
A few tables away from me sat the King of Lesotho, who is also coincidentally my neighbor. Not literally my neighbor, but he lives one village away, and I often see him speeding along our road with his entourage of three Mercedes. I was star struck; I had to go talk to him. So I did. I just walked up to the King, tapped him on the shoulder, and introduced myself. I think he was unimpressed, but he did say that he always notices me on my evening runs when he comes home from work!
I also met some South African television star named Sushi King (yes, there were two kings in attendance last night). I had absolutely no idea who he was, but he caused more of a stir than the King of Lesotho himself. Sushi King was more animated while he talked to me; we took a picture together, chatted about America, and he even sought me out later on in the evening before going to start the DJ booth. I lied and told him that I had seen his reality TV show; I didn’t want to be rude. I don’t think he would have been as friendly if I told him I hadn’t the faintest idea who he was.
I was home by 7:30pm and asleep by 8:30pm. I was exhausted. Apparently, the festivities are continuing today, this time in the groom’s hometown of Maseru (last night took place in the Mafeteng district). I’m not sure if I can muster up the energy to attend again, but I’m going to try. It’s not often that you witness a royal wedding anywhere other than on a television screen.
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