Wedding Disco

For the first time since being in Kenya, I dress up. No flat, wide shoes with thick rubber soles to navigate over rocks. No technical clothing to absorb the sweat brought out by the intense humidity. No hair pinned up to tame a mass of moist tresses. Only hair flowing free and long. Make-up carefully applied, lipstick over a foundation of chapstick followed by a layer of gloss and shine. A blue, silky skirt resting around my waist and caressing my hips and legs, all the way to the ankle. And a pair of camel-colored slingbacks with off-white piping and narrow heels. How does the song go? I feel pretty, oh so pretty, I feel pretty and gitty and gay. Well, maybe not gitty, but definitely feminine, something I haven't felt in nearly three months.

Mrs. Ruprah is wearing a lovely black saree with shiny turquoise embroidery catching and throwing the moonlight. She asks me to clasp a black velvet choker around her neck. Her earrings shimmer, the bangles on her arm dazzle. She's wearing a bracelet of red cloth with tiny brass bells attached, a typical wedding ornament provided by the hostess to female guests.

Mrs. Ruprah jingles when she walks.

We're going to Sonya's house, to celebrate the marriage of Sonya's brother-in-law, Raju, to Goldie, a woman who lives in Nairobi. Goldie will not be at the party, she is in Nairobi holding her own celebration. She will arrive Sunday night, after she and Raju are married in Nairobi, and she'll be brought to Kisumu to the house across the street where she'll live in a room on the second floor with Raju's extended family downstairs. Sonya's family lives across the street from the Ruprahs, in the corner house, where they've strung thousands of lights, colored and clear, flashing and flickering in trees and on the roof top.

Drumming is heard as Samuel escorts us out of our yard. We walk in the darkness to Sonya's gate, where a uniformed security guard allows us to enter. We cross the marble verandah and enter the house between thick glass doors. To the right, 15 mattresses are laid side by side across a large room. Couches and chairs have been pushed to the wall, banking the staging area. We pass this room and move down the hall and out the back door, onto the covered patio surrounded by a wall. Beyond the wall, the men have gathered, some sitting, like Mr. Ruprah, and others standing around a cooking fire. Raju, the Ruprah's son (who has the same name as the groom), is stirring oil and spices in a giant skillet with a spoon as big as an oar. The men toss in earth-colored herbs and spices as the mixture tries to boil. But this is where the men congregate, so we return to the house, to the front room carpeted in mattresses, where the women congregate.

We remove our shoes and step carefully across the mattresses, taking a seat on a couch. Stripped of my lovely shoes, I'm conscious of my deformed-looking big toes where my toenails have fallen off. The ladies enter, remove their shoes and manipulate yards of cloth around their bodies so they can sit comfortably in a tight group, almost shoulder to shoulder, facing toward the woman in the center who plays the drum. Some of the women look at me and speak, others do not.

Lying on its side, the drum has animal skin stretched across both ends, with one side larger than the other, producing a deeper and richer boom. Opposite the drummer, another woman hits a spoon against the wooden drum, providing a higher pitched percussion. In Punjabi, they discuss which song they'll sing. Lots of laughing and teasing leading into song. Then voices fall away as lyrics are forgotten, the drum beat slows then stops followed by more talking and laughing and false song starts. I'm enchanted, watching the way these 50 or so women (they keep coming in and coming in and finding spots to sits amongst their friends, on the floor, on couches, on laps) act as though they're all sisters, as though they've known each other forever. They are easy with each other, with their head tosses and thrown comments, with a single conversation amongst the group instead of 20 conversations whispered to a nearby ear.

Young girls squeeze amongst the grown women, anxious to get their hands on the drumming spoon. A toddler, about 18 months, wearing a smart, tiny dark brown suit, waddles between the ladies, more unsteady than usual on the mattress, until he reaches his mother, who is playing the drum. She allows him to fall onto her shoulder, but she drums and drums, managing to keep his tiny hands from upsetting her beat.

I'm told they're singing love songs and songs about marriage. Perhaps those are the same thing. Perhaps not. This is an arranged marriage.

A striking young woman in an aqua dress, with billowing skirt, brings around a plate filled with tiny, colored, bead-like candies, mixed with spices and herbs. I say no thanks because I'm not sure how to eat it, but she encourages me to take some by scooping it with the spoon and dropping it into my palm. Watching the women, I pinch the tiny balls and eat them slowly, tasting spices and sweetness in the crunching. After 20 minutes, the plate comes around again and I confidently scoop the candies, enjoying the refreshment while stomping my feet to the beat.

I'm getting used to hearing strange words rapidly spoken (or sung). Getting used to not understanding what is being said and not necessarily needing to know. With so many new sensations and emotions swirling around, it's often a relief to not follow conversations. To simply sit and watch, letting words and laughter and hand gestures wash over me. Amazing how without knowing words it's so easy to tell if someone is earnest or playful or chastising or simply providing information. Luo, Kiswahili, Punjabi. Their sounds come in crescendos, softly, harshly, day and night, registering but not understood. And that's okay. For now.

During a lull in the drumming, we hear the front gate clang and women's voices, singing, move toward us.

“Jagoo,” Mrs. Ruprah laughs and everyone hurriedly stands to put their shoes on.

“Juggle?” I ask, and they respond, “Jagoo!” So we move to the front door and spill into the yard, propping against porch rails and cars as a parade of women come from the dark night beyond the gate and approach the house, led by a woman in red whose face is illuminated by her crown of flames. She has a circular tray on her head filled with colorful flowers and six lit candles. The parade grows and follows her under the color-strung trees, around the house and onto the patio where a dj has set up 10-foot tall speakers. Four young men, black and Indian, crank up the music, an Indian rap with heavy bass beats. The ladies use the large patio as their dance floor and perform traditional Indian dances as the flaming tray is passed from woman to woman, around and around, until the men move onto the dance floor, taking the flaming tray onto their heads. Then the young boys and girls.

We dance and eat delectable Indian food, even a little goat and chicken. (Though Hindus are normally vegetarians, Sikh Indians sometimes eat meat, except for beef, because the cow is still sacred in India.) Nearing Midnight, we prepare to leave. Two ladies come by carrying a large tub from which they hand out brown paper bags filled with sweets, baked goodies that soak the brown paper with oil. Mr. And Mrs. Ruprah, Raju and I walk home under the stars holding tight to our goodie sacks. No cars, no bodas bodas at this hour. We own the road and practically dance across it.