Wedding Season during the Rainy Season

Rainy season - the quintessential equatorial African experience, with moody skies, billowing thunderheads and sheets of rain that soak you to the bone. Summer is the rainiest time of the year here in Mali. Water can destroy life as easily as foster it. Here in Bamako, a single thunderstorm can flood a whole field of crops as easily as sustain them, and can turn streets into rivers in seconds as the runoff negotiates its way back to the mother Niger River. The humidity is constant - I am trying to get used to the musty odor my clothes are fostering from never being able to fully dry. Yet, when compared to the other nine months of the year when Bamako's air is thick with urban smog and the sand whipped up into the atmosphere from the Sahara desert, one can't help but feel blessed by the rain. If I'm home, I often find myself storm watching from the family's roof. There are fewer more peaceful moments in this chaotic, industrial African capitol.

Summer in Mali, like many other parts of the world, is also wedding season! Weddings are typically Thursdays and Sundays. City traffic, while being absolutely insane anyways, is regularly made impassable by wedding motorcades that honk their way through town. Yet, Malians appear to LOVE wedding season. It is as great an honor to host a wedding as it is to attend one. The host feels particular pride in feeding as many people as possible - sometimes entire neighborhoods in addition to wedding guests - and the guest whether family, friend, or stranger is quick to make many meaningful blessings of prosperity to the wedding party and their family. What results is an impressive communal connection that builds ties and nurtures relationships across ethnic groups and social classes alike. 

In any case, weddings usually have three phases, including a civil, religious, and traditional ceremony. The civil ceremony takes place at the courthouse and concludes with a big party. The religious ceremony is more private and happens at the mosque. And the traditional ceremony happens in the home. The bride and groom usually only see each other during the civil ceremony, as the rest of the time celebrations are segregated between men and women. And, while I can’t speak to the civil or religious aspects of wedding ceremonies here, I was able to attend and participate in traditional ceremonies myself this past weekend as Gie and I celebrated our fifth anniversary with a belated Malian celebration. 

As you can expect, the traditional marriage ceremony is rooted in ritual. From the groomsmen stitching rolls of linen together to form the bedding for wedding night, to the aunties and griots encircling the bride in song and dance as she has her hands and feet washed by her grandmother, these customs have been practiced for generations. 

The night before my traditional ceremony, I was also treated to having henna applied to my hands and feet. The process took several hours, during which a steady stream of neighborhood ladies stopped by to meet me and congratulate my mother-in-law on her good fortune of marrying off her eldest son.  As drums played and many blessings made, Tante Tu delicately taped designs on to my hands and feet, applied the henna, then wrapped my limbs in plastic bags to help the dye “cook” for over two hours. The end result however was well worth the effort. When the plastic bags and tape were finally peeled away, a lovely, rich ochre lattice of flower petals and filigree was revealed. More than anything, Tante Tu’s meticulous care made me feel truly welcomed and accepted within the family. 

The morning of my ceremony was laid back, even while everyone hustled and bustled around me with preparations. Cooking, washing, cleaning… oh my! I did try to help and put myself in close proximity with the women cooking the feast but Mama Coulibaly told me it wasn't good for the bride to be out in the rain. I have a sneaking suspicion though it was to get me out of the way, since I’m guessing I looked clearly lost. In any case, relieved of any duty, I got to sit back and marvel most of the morning. 

By 1pm it was showtime. I hopped in the shower and donned traditional robes – a beautiful indigo blue – laid out for me by Mama Coulibaly.  I was then escorted out to greet the guests and start the feast – red rice with vegetables stewed with mutton and a side of spicy hot pepper sauce. Delicious! 

Griots performers were the entertainment for the afternoon, singing and dancing the history and achievements of the Kone and Coulibaly families respectively. Griots are the artists, musicians, and storytellers of the Malian people. It is socially acceptable for them to joke, jest, and create in ways that is considered too crass, emotional, or inappropriate for other more stoic ethnic castes within Malian society. They thus serve a purpose in not only passing on oral histories for generations of Malian families, but to create a vibrant cultural memory. Every family has a griot that will show up to big family events such as weddings and funerals. And while our particular family griot had a prior engagement on my ceremony day, there are plenty of entrprenurial griots looking for work.  Sometimes you even have multiple griots showing up to a single party, practically leading to a duel for the appreciation and sponsorship of the hosting family by lauding the family’s achievements and magnificence. The three griots that showed up to my traditional ceremony literally brought megaphones to out-laud their competition. And for their obsequiousness, family members usually slip money into the griots’ hands which in turn increases the volume of the flattery. Everyone ends up having a WONDERFUL time – the Griots go home with pockets full of money and the hosting family feels honored, valued, and important. 

With my ears ringing however, I was happy to escape the attention of the griots via requests from many of my new aunties and cousins for a quick photoshoot.  It was only a brief reprieve. 

The next phase of the traditional ceremony was to bathe (again) and don a second outfit of customary robes. The first outfit usually gets donated to a local family in the neighborhood while the second outfit gets bestowed to my mother (hi mom!). After changing outfits, Tanti Fifi checked my appearance and when satisfied draped a black headscarf over my head so that it hung over my eyes and wrapped loosely around my neck and shoulders. I was warned that now that the scarf was on I could not take it off until after sundown. I was then paraded out with song again for the last part of the ceremony – the washing of the hands and feet.

The washing of the bride’s hands and feet symbolizes a connection to the past as well as a fresh beginning. An elder woman from the community guides the bride and has her sit upon a stool with her grandmother or auntie seated besides her.  The elder woman then washes the bride’s grandmother/auntie’s hands and feet before turning focus to the bride. Many blessings are made during this time. As I did not have any of my family members present, Tante Iya requested to be my person. Suddenly however, as Tante Iya was being washed, my sinuses –  which had been stuffed up all day from a headcold – opened and began flowing! Unable to blow my nose and trying to discreetly wipe away the clear snot running down my face, the elder woman sharp as a tack caught me in the act and declared to the audience “Aww, she’s crying!” To which everyone cheered. I of course understood absolutely none of this because the entire ceremony was in Bambara, so I just kept smiling and internally cursing Sudafed for working too well. 

In any case, the ceremony continued onwards. My hands and feet (and face!) washed, my final task was before me - to stand and kick over the stool behind me. I had one chance to get it or risk a lifetime of bad luck, elder woman declared. Still not being able to see anything, I channeled my inner mare and gave it a good hind kick with follow through, like I really meant it. I heard a thud and massive cheers erupted again. To end it all I was escorted back into the house and over the following hour the party slowly began to break up. People came to me with their praises, prayers for many babies, and lengthy goodbyes, with Gie as always kindly translating everything for me.  By the time the last guest left I was absolutely exhausted. Yet Mama Coulibaly was positively beaming, making the many trials worth the craziness. 

Let me tell you, I don’t know how Malians have the energy to go to two of those crazy parties a week for three months a year. It’s a whole new level of commitment. And yet, in a country where there are no guarantees – where surviving the daily grind is an act of rebellion – where even the rain can wash away your livelihood – it’s no wonder that Malians take the time to cherish and solidify their connections to one another. I am thankful that I have been able to honor my new family by observing and respecting their traditions, as well as taking the time to celebrate our (second) wedding.