Mother of the bride

"My daughter is getting married on Thursday in Kati. I am the mother of the bride. It is a big deal. You are coming."
I looked at Irene with a blank stare. Who? Not Awa, though she is a new mother, I know she's not getting married.
"What's her name?"
"Batuma." I had never heard of this daughter before. But sometimes Malians extend their immidiate family like that. When I told them that my uncle was coming to visit, they asked if it was an older or younger brother of my mom's. "It's my dad's older brother," I explained to them. "Ohhh," said my host mom, "that's not your uncle, that's your other father."
In that same logic, Batuma was really a neice, her mother alive and well. But aparently Irene was the mother of the bride and I was obliged to go.

I met up with them after I spend a couple of sick days in Bamako (all better now), and found Irene primping herself with tons of scary eye-makeup and her hair all did. She had a very large sparkly headress and a moumu. (She would proceed to change her outfit a total of four times during the day). She actually looked cool though, like an African queen. She had one of her little neices put henna on my feet and hands. Henna is black dye that Malians draw flowers and little designs on their hands and feet for special occasions. Its kind of like temporary tatoos that last for a week or so. It dried painfully over the many blisters I aquired from wearing my Caroline's running shoes the day before.

The wedding was different than any I had attended in Dombila. Namely, this was the bride's side. And also, these were richer people. I felt pretty underdressed in my old pink complee. No sparkly headress here. I didn't even have any jewlery with me. We sat in fold-out chairs under a colorful tent with dozens of women. Yes, only women the whole day. This was not a man's party. They danced in a circle surrounding the xylophones, and Irene literally forced me out of my seat a number of times to join the dance. I wish I could write about this experience from the point-of-view of a visiting anthropologist. A beautiful traditional ceremony filled with colorful culture. Yet as much as I tried to enjoy the experience, I essentially was Irene's dog on a leash all day, and abided to follow her everywhere when she called me. What else was I going to do?

We spent the late afternoon in the bride's room. You see, the Malian bride does not come out of the house on her wedding day. She stays inside, greeting people who stop in, as she waits for nightfall. That's when they will bring her to her husband's house where she will stay FOR-EV-ER. I told you how distraught I was when I saw Mody's new wife crying upon being left in her new husband's compound, but I think I understand now. It's just like going off to college, for good. A girl lives with her father until her wedding day, and then packs up all of her stuff and leaves. It's a tearjerker for the whole family.

Batuma was inside with her closest girl-friends, Irene, and I (feeling quite awkward and out of place). Her things were packed and she was waiting on her bed, looking beautiful in dark bazan, henna, and fine jewlery. The room was dark and stuffy, and I was sitting on the bride's right side while people came in to greet, give blessings and cry.

At one point we went outside to do the first round of gifts. A griot (traditional singer of blessings) would sing to Batuma, who was getting her face and feet washed by an old woman. You could throw money toward the griot and she would announce, in song, how much money you gave to the bride and then sing your special message. Irene gave a small bill and I heard her whisper to the griot that she has know Batuma for 18 years and how special she was to her. The griot began singing, "Oh Batummaaaa, she's known you for 10 years..." And everytime she said "10 years" Irene scoffed in the background, shaking her haid. "It's much more than 10." When it was over, they shooed Batuma away, and called, "Next!" and a whole other group of people came to the spot. I was confused.

As we waited in the bedroom, Batuma had a dark shawl and veil covering her. Another girl came in with the same exact outfit, followed by the future sister-in-law who looked at them closely. "This one's Batuma. You're coming with me!" Was this some kind of traditional guessing game? With look alike brides that you have to pick the real one? I had no idea.

They passed a long time putting off the big leave, nighttime fell and we went without dinner. Soon the party had ended and Irene was taking Batuma around the street, greeting the elders and getting ready for the departure. This was Irene's show now. And when she called a car over, she and Batuma entered, and so did I, on that leash.

We drove and drove through the night on the streets of Kati toward Bamako. After a while, the rickety old car descended off the road into a dirt path in a small valley. We twisted and turned- as far as I could see we were going into the middle of nowhere with only our two headlights to light the way. I prayed for our saftely.

We arrived in a large compound in a small village. The husband's house. The family was welcoming, and among 3 albino young women, I felt somewhat at home. We sat in the dark as Irene went through a series of negotiations with the new family. "You must buy her a white gown," Irene demanded.

They agreed, as long as they would agree to abide by the tradition that a new bride must stay inside the house for a whole 7 days after the wedding. "Our neighbors new bride only spent 3 days inside for the honeymoon. And that marriage turned out terrible!"

We headed back to Kati late, Irene semi-emotional, but also complaining of a tea-deprived headache. She was good to have around for the new bride, I thought, people listen to this woman. But why did she do this job?

"The real mother of the bride never drops the bride off. You always get a relative and name her 'the mother of the bride'. They go and do all the negotiations and drop the daughter off."

Ohhhhh. I get it now. But why was there another girl dressed as a bride? Were there two marriages today?

"There were four." I guess its normal for a family to get all of their weddings done in one shot. In one day, this family married off three of their daughters, and brought in a woman for their son. No wonder it was a big party.

The Miracle Tree

The kids and I planted a couple of dozen Moringa trees, which have grown quite nicely. Lately, I've been taking them around the village and giving them to mothers of malnourished kids and close friends.

So what is Moringa? They call it the miracle tree. It's leaves are amazingly high in an abundance of nutrients. Moringa has 7 times the vitamin C of an orange, 3 times the iron of spinich, 2 times the protien of milk, 4 times the calcium of milk, 3 times the potassium of bananas, and 4 times the vitamin A in carrots. The leaves can be dried and turned into a natural nutritional suppliment, which we can add to a baby's porriage. The seeds can be grinded into a powder that purifies water. The flowers can be made into a tea that aleviates headaches.

There are a couple naturally growing moringa trees in Dombila, but the kids and I have planted some more, which grow very quickly, even in unfertilized soil. I also planted 6 at the CSCOM with the help of Laji, a tree-worker who cut his leg down to the bone on the job and has been hanging out at the CSCOM for the past two months while it heals and he tries to figure out how to get money to keep up his medications. He took some pride in this occupational therapy. Unfortunately, most of the nutritional benifits of our baby trees at the CSCOM have been enjoyed by the goats.

I've written about moringa before, about how I put the leaves in my spagetti. It's hard to explain to Malians just how much of a miracle it is when they have limited understanding of vitamins, minerals, and macronutrients. I've found the most comprehensive nutrition education that makes sense to them so far is "This food has lots of vitamins. This food doesn't." So when I explain moringa, I say, "This has lots of lots of lots of vitamins!"

Little by litte, people are understanding. I have women tell me that their breast milk increased after putting moringa in their sauce, I caught Shaka's family cooking it for dinner, and almost weekly I find Irene giving a talk about it to pregnant women and mothers in the CSCOM.

For more information on moringa, here is a pretty good video.