Manyo-Yeah! (A Bridesmaid in Senegal)

I was summoned to my friend Tagui's wedding by the beat of drums issuing from her mom's house next door to me. I hoped I wasn't late. I had, after all, been invited to be a "hotesse," or bridesmaid, but had no idea what this entailed. When I arrived at the house, I found a large group of women standing in a circle clapping and dancing. In the middle of the circle were the drummers. It took me a minute to realize Tagui was also in the middle of the circle, lying on the ground under a sheet, while a musoo khoto (respected older woman) braided her hair.

When the drumming stopped and the griot (sort of like a bard) began singing the praises of the bride's family, the crowd wiped tears as they remembered those that had passed. When the hair was finished, I was summoned to the "washing place." I followed a handful of women - in the midst of which was Tagui - covered fully with a white sheet. The mysterious washing place turned out to be the middle of a field, where Tagui stripped down to nothing but a pagne wrap while the older women scrubbed her with soap and water.

 Newly clean, she was re-covered with the white sheet and we toured the village - Tagui and her entourage. Every time we passed an adult male, my friend would shake his hand and ask for money. Most people gave 100cfa, the equivalent of about 20 cents. Our tour ended at the mosque - an exciting prospect for me since I had never been inside the gates before. We left our shoes at the gate and circled the building three times while singing.

Back at Tagui's house, I got caught up talking with a group of women, when suddenly a great wailing arose from the hut where Tagui had disappeared into. Inside women were screaming and crying, shedding real tears at the prospect of Tagui leaving her mom's house to join her husband's family. The kids in the room, however, betrayed that perhaps this was all for show. They were giggling and wailing with much glee and exaggeration.

In one corner of the family compound were sitting many of the old men of the village, wearing important-looking kuufies. Tagui was sat in front of them, covered still, clutching a gourd spoon - the im portance of which we will revisit later - while listening to the old men's words. I did not listen, however, as I was busy with the women and the henna.

We now arrive at the Great Transition - the moment when Tagui was accompanied by a handful of women to Ibrahima's house. She sat beside him on bed in their bedroom while each of us curtsied to Ibou and we recited each other's last names. We left Tagui there on the bed next to her husband, looking terrified.

I visited my friend later that night. While friends and family danced to the loud music issuing from speakers outside, Tagui was confined to her room. She was not allowed to leave while people paraded in to give their blessings. In direct proportion to the number of adult women that were present, the more tears my friend shed. She told me she had a cold, but I saw her brush away real tears.

*******

The final day of the wedding always falls on a Friday. Friday is to the Muslim what Sunday is to the Christian. A marriage is not official until it is announced by the imam at the mosque; whether the couple is present or not is a moot point.

So now it is Friday, the final day of the wedding. (Weddings here are three days. I missed the first day due to the 4th of July.) People had already begun gathering at Ibrahima's house when I arrived. After some time, the music was quieted and the same old men issued more advice to Tagui, again sitting in front of them covered and holding the same gourd spoon. Then kola nuts were passed around and we shared them while congratulating the happy couple.

At some point, I was summoned to a back room and given my bridesmaid outfit. It's interesting to note the garrish bridesmaid phenomenon is worldwide.

We sat in the back room for hours while people gathered outside. I'm not sure why we waited so long, unless to give the bridesmaids more time to laugh at me while I practiced my dancing. (Despite their laughter, they did, in the end, declare that I was no longer a toubab, but in fact a "fatee fingo" or black skin.)

The mood in general on this final day was much more joyous and I was glad to see my friend laughing and joking again.

We at long last paraded out to the crowd to take photos.

As women must stay within their husband's compound for five days following a wedding, I would visit Tagui several times over the next few days. I noticed that same gourd spoon hanging from her ceiling.

"Munna? Why?" I asked.

A young girl piped up. "If Ibrahima beats Tagui, then she has to take the spoon down. As long as he doesn't beat her, the spoon stays up."

Tagui now seems to be enjoying her status as a married woman, even though most women here will tell you that the life of an African woman is very difficult. I was glad to note that the last time I was at Tagui's house, the spoon was still stuck in the ceiling.