Bride-price negotiations (no, not mine)

The red bull took a long time to die, in spite of the spear with the broken shaft embedded in his side. It walked around the corral in a daze, as if in disbelief that the end was coming. Only when a young man tried to pull the spear out did it react by bucking and dancing away, while the children chanted “Let it live! Let it live!”
On the third attempt to retrieve the weapon, the bull lunged at the fence of the corral, sending the women and children who had been watching scattering. I joined the mad scramble, looking back only when I was at a safe distance. The men were holding up the fence and pushing the bull back. The spearsman darted in and grabbed what was left of his weapon, wrenching it out.
The bull fell shortly after. Its throat was slit open, and the business of butchering began.
I was witnessing a lobola negotiation ceremony, where the family of the bride and groom-to-be get together to sort out the bride price and formalize the engagement. It took place at a homestead, a small family farm, in the countryside in Swaziland’s southeast. The practice of lobola has endured throughout Swaziland, in spite of the strong western and Christian influences in the country. Even the young, urban professionals are not immune, and the couple at this ceremony had met when they were in university together. I was tagging along with a Canadian friend who was invited by the groom-to-be, Toulani, her work colleague at a micro-finance institution.
The negotiations were already underway in a large, circular hut when we arrived, so we crept in and joined the groom’s family on the floor. His sister Sbonsiwe came over and explained, in whispers, what was going on. It seems there was a disagreement about the cost of cattle. The bride price is traditionally paid in cattle, usually around 15 -20 animals in total, but in this case half the price would be paid in cash. The disagreement was over the price of the individual cows... the groom’s family said each one was worth 1000 Emalangeni where they came from, while the bride’s family said it was 2000 in their region. They soon came to a compromise of 1500 per cow.
The man heading up the negotiations on the groom’s side placed a huge wad of cash on the floor, and the bride’s uncles took it and counted it. They smiled their approval, and the groom’s face showed relief after a long period of tension. Then joking began. “What about the white girls?” asked one man. “Are they married?” When the answer, no, came back, the younger man claimed Marise for himself. His toothless companion said I’d do for him. Fortunately for us, our future husbands left shortly after with the other men to go inspect the cattle.
With only the women left, a young girl from the groom’s family set out to give the old women from the bride’s family gifts of blankets and headscarves. She draped a new blanket over each woman’s shoulders, and tied a scarf over each woman’s head. Each woman had already been wearing a headscarf – the sign of a married woman – and a shawl, yet they still seemed immune to the 30 degree heat in spite of their multiple layers.
Next they pulled a dress over the bride’s head – the simple cotton print dress worn by rural mamas – and tied a scarf over her bare head. She cried as her friends fussed over her and giggled at her new matronly appearance. The old women got up and shuffled out of the hut.
Now it was time for the bride’s friends and cousins to show their joy in the successful negotiations by dancing. Nobody was willing to start, until finally the bride’s best friend got up and stood in the centre of the room.
She danced alone, accompanied only by the clapping and singing of the other girls. They sang about hangovers, pregnancy and the dangers of HIV, while the dancer kicked one leg at a time high into the air, bringing it back down to the ground with a flat-footed slap. The skill seemed to be in how high the dancer could kick her leg in the time allotted by the song.
The girls took turns taking the stage, dancing alone or in pairs. One flexible girl of about 11 out-danced all of them. She mocked the young men who had crept into the hut by doing a dance about having too much to drink, and kicked her legs so high I thought she’d kick herself. Her friend got up and did a moving dance about a young girl who is realizing that something is growing in her belly. Even Katie, the Canadian girl who’d brought Marise and I along, had her turn. Her work colleagues pushed her onto the floor and she good-naturedly complied with a little dance, ending with an attempt at a high kick, much to everyone’s amusement.
After the dancing we joined the rest of the party at the corral to watch the slaughter of two cows. The cows would be eaten the following day, when the engagement ceremonies continued. The first cow to be slaughtered, a small black and white one, took even longer than the bull to die. I will spare you the gruesome details of that killing-gone-awry.
I asked one of Katie’s colleagues why they used spears to kill the cow, seeing as it didn’t seem to be either the most efficient or humane way to do it, and she replied, “How else would they kill it?” Good point. A cow is a large animal, and the quick slit of the throat used on goats is rather more difficult on a large beast with horns. The men doing the killing showed their respect for the animals, though, by sitting until the animal fell.
When the two cows were motionless on the ground, the fun began. First the skin had to be peeled back, while obliging young women held the cow’s legs out of the way. Then all the bits inside were extracted and taken inside in plastic tubs, then the legs hacked off with an axe and hung on the fence to, um.... I don’t know. Dry? Finally, they carried the body of the cows into the kitchen, singing and laughing all the way. There even seemed to be a bit of a tug-of-war game going on at one point with one of the cows. How, I don’t know... You’d think a mutilated corpse would be much too slippery for such games.
After that it was time to start drinking, or time to go home. We opted for home. It was a long drive back along a pot-holed highway in a truck with malfunctioning headlights. Only the high-beams worked, so when we passed other cars either we were blinded or they were. But we made it at last, and I tumbled in to bed where visions of severed limbs danced in my head...