Chapter 51: Umgcagco

The day of our traditional wedding finally arrived. After everything we had been through, I was finally going to become Qondanisa's wife. Not just in the eyes of the law, but in the eyes of his ancestors, his family, and his culture.

The weeks leading up to the wedding had been a whirlwind of preparation. Qondanisa had arranged for Relato, my sister, and my cousin to fly to Durban with me. He had hired a place for us to stay, a beautiful house near the coast where we could practise the Zulu dance and songs.

For two weeks, we were taught by young Zulu maidens. They showed us the traditional dances, the steps, the rhythm. We practised every day until our feet ached and our bodies were sore. But I was determined. This was Qondanisa's culture, and I wanted to honour it.

"We are going to make a Zulu bride out of you yet," Relato said one evening, laughing as we practised the steps.

"I hope so," I said, wiping sweat from my brow. "I do not want to embarrass Qondanisa."

"You will not embarrass anyone," my cousin said. "You are doing so well."

The day of the wedding was warm and sunny. The ceremony was held at Qondanisa's family home in KwaMashu. His mother, MaKhumalo, was there, her face glowing with pride. Relatives had come from all over to witness the union.

I stood in a designated area, waiting for the ceremony to begin. My heart was pounding so hard I could hear it in my ears. Then came the moment I had been told about. I was given a small knife called isinqindi. I was told to point the wound of the cow that was going to be used to welcome and introduce me to Qondani’s ancestors. This cow is called inkomo yomqholiso. This was a sacred ritual—the cow would be slaughtered, and its bile would be used to mark me as a new member of the Qwabe clan.

I walked toward the cow, my hands shaking. I pointed the knife at it, as I had been instructed. The elders nodded in approval.

The cow was slaughtered, and the bile was collected. Then the elders approached me. The male elder went to their alter called their clan names and introduced himself and told them to welcome their new bride.

They smeared the bile on my body—on my arms, my shoulders, my face. It was cold and sticky, and the smell was strong. Then they brought the bile to my lips. I licked it, as tradition demanded. It was bitter and unpleasant, but I did not hesitate. This was my initiation into the Qwabe clan. 

The elders also prepared a  gall bladder from the cow that had been slaughtered. They pumped it with air until it became a small balloon. I was told to tuck it at the side of my isicholo or place it anywhere on my body. I placed it carefully at the side of my isicholo, feeling the weight of tradition on my head.

I did not flinch. I had been told what to expect.

The traditional outfits were prepared with care. My isidwaba—the traditional Zulu skirt—was made from cowhide of the cow Qondanisa bought. Qondanisa had bought the cow himself and introduced it to his ancestors. He said the isidwaba carries my footprints so I would never have to borrow it. I also wore beads around my neck, my arms, and my ankles. On my head, I wore isicholo, the traditional hat worn by married Zulu women. It was a symbol of respect and honour.

When I looked at myself in the mirror on midday of the wedding, I hardly recognised myself. I looked like a true Zulu bride.

"Yoh, Mapaseka," Relato breathed. "You look beautiful. Qondanisa is going to cry when he sees you."

I laughed, but my heart was pounding with nerves.

Next, I walked to the field, esigcawini, where I would present my gifts to Qondanisa's family. I carried the blankets, amacanci, doeks and pinafores.

The first gifts were presented to Qondanisa's ancestors in accordance with Zulu tradition. After that, Makhumalo received her blanket, doek, pinafore, basket, and the many other gifts prepared especially for her. She was overwhelmed with joy, and tears streamed down her face. She stood up and performed a traditional Zulu dance to express her gratitude and appreciation. Mzo and his father were then presented with their gifts, which they accepted with warm smiles and heartfelt thanks.

Then came the moment everyone had been waiting for.

Qondanisa and I were to perform a Zulu dance together.

I was nervous. I had practised for weeks, but I was still new to this. I did not want to embarrass myself or my husband-to-be.

But when I looked at Qondanisa, all my fears melted away. He was standing in the middle of the field, dressed in his traditional Zulu attire. He looked handsome—strong, proud, and full of love.

He smiled at me and held out his hand.

"Come, sthandwa sami," he said. "Dance with me."

I took his hand, and we began to dance.

The drums started beating, and then we began to sing the songs we have prepared. Qondanisa led me through the steps, his movements strong and confident. I followed as best as I could, my feet stumbling at first.

But I did not give up. I kept going, matching his rhythm, following his lead.

The crowd cheered and clapped. They could see that I was trying. They could see that I was giving my all.

When the dance ended, Qondanisa pulled me into his arms.

"You did so well," he whispered into my ear. "I am so proud of you."

"Really?" I asked, breathless. "I felt like I was stumbling."

"You were perfect," he said. "You are perfect."

We kissed, and the crowd erupted in cheers.

Later that night, after the celebrations had died down, Qondanisa and I sat together on the porch of his mother's house. The stars were bright overhead, and the air was warm and sweet.

"You are officially part of the Qwabe clan now," Qondanisa said, holding my hand. "How does it feel?"

I smiled, leaning my head on his shoulder. "It feels like home."

He kissed the top of my head. "That is because it is. You are home now. You are my wife. You are part of my family. Nothing will ever change that."

I looked up at him, my heart full. "I love you, Qondanisa Qwabe."

"I love you too, Mapaseka Qwabe," he said. "My wife. "

We sat in silence, watching the stars, and I knew—this was where I belonged.