I Do, I Do, I Do
By Fred Owens
Something about her quiet determination got my attention. That morning of the wedding day, we got up and made tea as always. Precious talked about her mother Matilda who had passed away at an early age. Matilda had flown away from the brutality of her husband, Mr. T, going back to her Tonga village and family alongside the Zambezi River, in the hot country. The Tonga were a small traditional tribe and very poor. Precious had only one small wallet-size photo of her mother, as if Matilda had traveled through her tragic life and left no trace, only the photo. Even so Matilda's mournful face moved me. Even today I can see her face and hear her voice although I never met her. She had the soul of every African woman. Precious shared that soul and today she would redeem it. Today was for Matilda, although per her normal custom, Precious did not say those words, having just a wan smile and telling a story about how Matilda went to the market every day to sell tomatoes. "My mother was very kind to me," she said. "Her life was too hard and she died, but I think about her every day. She sold her tomatoes every day and bought me candy when I was a small girl. I can never forget."
Someone was rattling the chain at the gate of our rented house on 21 Shottery Crescent. Cousin Tanti, the Maid of Honor, had come by herself, without any of her seven children, to do Precious's hair. "It's Tanti," Precious said, "Go let her in." "What are you going to do with your hair?" I asked smiling. She said, "You go and leave this bedroom. You will not see me now. Go over the fence and help Mr. Dlhwayu with his broken motors."
Fair enough. I took my suit and shirt and shoes to the other bedroom and went for a shower. I had a fresh haircut from the white barber in downtown. This may seem obvious once it has been pointed out, but black people and white people don't go to the same place for their hair. Eat the same food, go to the same school, play hopscotch by the same rules, but hair is the difference. My white barber was gay, he seemed to enjoy brushing up against my leg. He complained to me, a perfect stranger, about being harassed about his collection of pornography. "It's my business if I want to look at art photos. You have to be so careful in Bulawayo. The natives -- and I don't mean just the black people -- are very conservative."
"I hear you, and you better be careful who you trust," I said, looking around the room, seeing only white men reading magazines -- old Rhodesians, the remnants of a banished tribe. I was not and never could be a member of their club. A white man could sleep with a black woman anytime, but quietly, or talked about in code words. You couldn't marry one, in the open like I was about to do. But it never came up in the conversation, because we never talked. I just knew it was a waste of time. The old Rhodesians were famous for being close-mouthed to strangers. But I got a good haircut. I did want to share my story with the gay barber because he had his own persecution to face, but I did not have the chance to tell him that the haircut was in honor of my wedding in a few days. I said nothing, but gave him a very large tip, which was typical of Americans in Africa. We were loud, we banged into furniture, and we left vary large tips. I thought Zimbabwe could use a few hundred American immigrants --- things I might have said to the old Rhodesians if they had given me the slightest welcome. It didn't matter.
My shoes were shined in the spare bedroom. My suit and shirt were fresh from the store. I even bought a red tie. "Who is bringing the goat?" I shouted through the closed bedroom door. "That man is bringing it," she said. "What man?" I asked. "That man who brought us together, Joseph from the Palace Hotel. You don't remember?" she said. "How could I forget Joseph? He changed my life. He made me a prince among men because he brought you into my life ..... but will Joseph bring the firewood for cooking the goat because we don't have any?" "Don't concern yourself with that," she said with irritation. "Go back to Dlhwayu and help him fix his car."
Well, I didn't have anything to do and it was too early to drink beer. Stand around and wait. That's what grooms do. I was finished thinking about it. I could have grabbed my passport and credit card and fled out the back door, and gone out to the airport and caught the next jet going to Johannesburg and then back to America. I could still escape. She would never find me......Nah.... Nah.... I'm staying. I'm doing this. It's like Wyatt Earp at the OK Corral. I'm going to face those demons and start shooting. Maybe die.
All right, I won't die today but why does a wedding feel like death? The death of a dream? The ruination of fantasy? And where the hell is Mr. Jones? I was expecting Colonel Clifford Jones, retired, Zimbabwe National Guard and my Best Man, to show up with the rental car. Precious was not going downtown in her gown all smashed into my pretty white Nissan diesel truck. We had to pay for a new car rental.
Three cigarettes later -- I must have been nervous -- Jones drove up in a shiny new rental Honda. He parked it in the driveway and walked over to my vigil spot, my pacing chamber under the pepper tree. He formed a languid figure in his sport coat and tie, sort of a charcoal grey-brown light wool jacket, suitable for hunting foxes. Jones could have hunted foxes, if he had wanted to, he gave that impression, a mixed race warrior and he had nothing to prove. "It's your big day, kid," he said. "Kid? No one calls me kid. You can call me Freddy if you want," I told him. I had scouted out this pepper tree in our front yard a hundred times. With the result of deep research I chose just the right Wedding Day tree limb to lean against while I awaited the bride. If you know anything about trees, you can't just lean against any branch. Men do this the world over. In 1972 in Manhattan in the Lower East Side, at 3 a.m. in the morning, outside a smoky tavern, on a hot and humid August night, I chose the rear fender of an old green Chevy to lean against. I was really cool and then I realized that the guys gathered towards the front of the same car, breathing the same air as me, smoking the same smoke as me, were beatnik poet Allen Ginsberg and his coterie. That's when I realized how cool I really was. Leaning on the same car with those guys. So don't tell me a pepper tree in my front yard in Bulawayo was any different. I chose my leaning limb and struck a pose. And Mr. Jones, without even trying, chose a leaning limb just as cool as mine. That's why I picked him to be Best Man. Let Precious and Tanti do their magic in the bedroom. We had the car ready and we waited, and it was going to take a long time.
You still going through with this?" Jones said. He looked up and down the road and gave me a chance to reflect.
"I don't need to think about it anymore. I thought of just running to the airport and catching a plane, but I'm staying," I said.
"Well, I got the car and I'm your man. You want to fly, let's fly. Cause they're in there right now planning to take over your life."
"You're against marriage but I'm not. My Mom and Dad had a happy life together. I want that same thing. I always thought I'd be married. I never soured on it. I never blamed myself when it went south. I like being married because it focuses the mind. Precious is who I'm going to deal with, just her."
"Is it too early for a beer?"
Guests were floating in. The uncles Ronnie and Milton, both bachelors. Milton was gay. He went to Jo-burg for work and ran with the wrong crowd and got shot and killed a few years later. That kind of thing happens in Joburg. Ronnie came with the usual sad story. Smiley came with his wife and daughter. Maphuto, Patrick, Francis and Christopher were bachelor cousins. Mr. and Mrs. Ndlovu. All kinds of lady cousins all dolled up. I didn't know their names. The house filled up and the crowd spilled over to the yard under the shade of the pepper tree. But people were still quiet and the music was soft, waiting for the bride. Mr. Mataka and Mr. T came in Mr.T's old green truck, or maybe he just borrowed it. Aunt Marji rode in the back with various younger children, Prince, Johnny and Juliano. The Dlhwayus walked over from next door. Bill and Mary Collier, the nasty white people down the street, were invited, but we knew they wouldn't come. Clyde, the cashier at Solomon's fancy grocery store, came with his girl friend. The goat was already roasting. Someone in the back was fixing another fire to boil a big pot of sadza, that heavy cornmeal mush that Zimbabweans never get tired of.
I was glad to see Mataka and not glad so see his oldest son Peter Lovemore, the one we called Mr. T. Coming for the bride-price. I'm thinking ten cows at $500 each. The cows to be delivered one year at a time, or the cash instead, and people nowadays usually took the cash, which made it a lot less interesting.
Less the cost of the wedding, which I was paying for. Less a discount for her advanced age, almost 35. Less a discount for already having children, but that was a plus too because it proved she could -- have children.
I was just not too interested in this discussion. Mr. T would have to wait. I had this advantage because I was not of his culture. He could not make me pay, or shame me or embarrass me. Besides I was already paying for this and that. I paid for school fees and over due water bills and groceries. I was prepared and willing to keep making small payments on a sustainable scale. And not because I owed the bride-price, but because I came from America. For some reason, Americans have a lot more money than Africans. So why not be generous? Later on, years later, Mr. T. got a large chunk of my money, but that was too his ruin. I will tell that part at the end of this story.
Precious emerged in slow procession from the house, coming out the front door, with Tanti holding her train up from the red dust of Africa. She gave a confident laugh at the crowd of relatives, a laugh that said you thought I couldn't do this, but I can do this and today is my day.. The crowd of relatives parted like waves on the Red Sea. She was beautiful and regal. She looked at me but did not wave, walking slowly to the driveway and the waiting car. Mr. Jones took his position and kept the door open. Precious eased herself into the back seat followed by Tanti. Mr. Mataka came in the other side. I rode up front while Mr. Jones drove downtown to the travel agency.
We climbed the stairs to the judicial chambers. The agent seated Precious and me at an elegant table where we signed papers applying for a civil marriage. We all stood up and the agent, now acting as Justice of the Peace, read the vows and we repeated after him, that we promised to love one another, cherish and care for one another until death do us part. I thee wed and you may kiss the bride. It was very simple and not overly solemn. It was a good day. Africa and America were united in marriage. We would float down the river of chance and die or not die, but together, and we were bound to each other and what was hers, from the pyramids to Capetown, was now mine, and what was mine, from Virginia to San Francisco, was now hers. And her family joined my family, from the lowest earth to the highest stars above. It was a good day. Outside, maybe ninety degrees and clear skies. Not too hot. We rode in silence back to our rented house at 21 Shottery Crescent, now married, and what would my parents think of this? Surprisingly my father, who died in 1974 and harbored racist views that would never change, told me, in my dreams, that he had a change of heart since he died and went to heaven. "I like that Precious girl. I think she will be good for you." But my mother, who died in 1996, had her doubts. "Don't say I'm prejudiced, but she has no education," mom said. "How can she make a living except to be a housekeeper?"
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