Authors: Monica McCabe
“Ever seen an African tribal wedding?” He zipped across the Ngotwane River and made a left onto Motsete Highway.
“On the Discovery Channel,” she answered. “Will I tonight?”
Even in the gathering dusk he could see that ever-present curiosity of hers. “If we get there in time.”
Matt downshifted and made a quick jog onto Molepolole Road and headed northwest. The sun had disappeared below the horizon, and he pushed the Rover as fast as road conditions allowed. Which wasn’t near fast enough, but jarring teeth didn’t make for a good date.
Not that he’d classify this as a date. But hell, it wasn’t an interrogation either.
“Did you find out who owned the mansion today?”
Damn. So much for hoping she’d forgotten that. “I’m still working on it.”
“No you aren’t,” she scoffed. “You just don’t want to tell me.”
“That’s right,” he admitted. “And you know why? Because this is a dangerous game and the people involved don’t play nice. Let it go.”
“It’s too late for that and you know it.”
He sighed theatrically. “Please, Miranda. I get precious little time off. Let’s enjoy an evening free of investigations and intrigue. Just for tonight.”
He could see she didn’t like it one bit, but playing on her sympathy worked like a charm. She let it go, and they made the rest of the drive in relative peace.
Twilight blanketed the open sky by the time they pulled onto the dirt-packed road that led to Katomi’s small but thriving village. Central clapboard buildings and outer huts of mud and thatch hadn’t changed much since the days of Matt’s youth. Village life continued the way it had for generations. But traces of modern life were creeping in.
Matt pulled up alongside a cattle corral he helped build two years ago and parked. An orange glow lit up the darkening sky behind the huts, the bonfire signaling the beginning of Zuli’s wedding. They were right on time.
The village appeared deserted, but drums sounded a distant and steady beat. “Where is everyone?” Miranda asked as she climbed out of the vehicle.
He rounded to the back of the Rover and opened the hatch. “A dry lakebed about a hundred yards out. It marks the edge of the Kalahari and serves all ceremonial events. Based on those drums, it’s about to begin.” Matt lifted out a couple of fat chunks of wood and closed the back hatch.
“What are those for?”
“It’s a surprise.” He’d tell her after she’d downed a shot or two of courage. “Come on, let’s go.”
Leading the way, they wove through the village at a fast pace. The evening was warm, but not uncomfortably so, and she kept up without a word of complaint. As they rounded the last hut and set out across a well-worn path, the sound of chanting voices began to blend with drums.
A bittersweet sense of nostalgia washed over Matt.
The scene unfolding before them was as familiar to him as life in the city. A central bonfire crackled and popped, lighting the faces of Bakwena men and women in ceremonial face paint. They ringed the fire, the women adorned in colorful scarves and countless necklaces of stone and feathers. The men sported grass skirts and bare feet, some brandishing a carving of their symbolic totem, the alligator. They danced in rhythm with the drums, arms lifted to the waxing three quarter moon, chanting the blessings of their ancestors.
“Amazing!” Miranda cried.
A high-pitched, undulating yell filled the night, and even he had to admit it was a scene straight out of
National Geographic
. A warrior faced the bonfire in full ceremonial gear. Circles of dried grass looped about his waist, ankles, and wrists, and a headdress of shell and bone scraped his shoulders as he lifted a spear to the sky.
“Who is that?” Miranda asked.
“Father of the bride.”
Katomi spun back to the crowd and flashed a smile of welcome straight at Matt. After a quick salute, Matt escorted Miranda over to join the throng.
Singsong chanting began again, and the circle started moving. Stomping feet and clapping hands, their voices rose with words of love, fidelity, life, and family. They rounded the mass of people to the far end for a better view, and Matt dropped the wood at their feet.
“Which one is the bride?” Miranda asked.
He pointed back toward town. “She’s on her way. Her mother and sisters escort her to the fire for the handfasting.”
“This is so incredible.” Miranda’s smile warmed his insides. “I can’t tell you how excited I am.”
Yeah, him too, though more from the prospect of tasting those enticing lips of hers.
The warm Kalahari night surrounded them, and he stepped up close behind her, settling his hands on her shoulders to knead soft muscle with his thumbs. A blazing inferno served as a backdrop for Katomi’s ceremonial dance, drums pounding out tradition. And all he could think about doing was reaching down to taste the nape of her neck.
When the bride arrived, he seized an opportunity to lean close and whisper in her ear. “That’s Zuli, the bride.”
She was dressed in a wraparound sari of rich browns and vibrant reds, a tall headscarf that denoted noble lineage, and adorned with beaded necklaces and big loop earrings that glinted in the firelight. She glowed with the radiance of a woman in love as she stood waiting for her father’s approval of her groom. Matt whispered as much to Miranda.
The chief performed a final circle of the bonfire, tossing his spear from hand to hand. It had bits of bone and shell that dangled from braided grass rope, and they rattled to the escalating drumbeat. Then, as the rhythm grew to a breaking point, Katomi grasped his spear with a high-pitched yell, lifted it high over his head, then sank the tip into the desert sands.
The drums silenced. The fire snapped and crackled. Then softly, a singsong voice drifted their way. It grew stronger as the tribal shaman rounded the fire and came to a halt by the sunken spear.
The bride and groom joined him, bowed their respect to the symbolic spear, and the ceremony began.
The shaman sang loud, reaching for the heavens and shaking pebble-filled gourds that rattled with a hollow sound. His voice rang with ceremonial reverence as he crisscrossed down the groom’s torso, following the twisted straps of his wedding regalia. He did the same for the bride, all while chanting in his singsong way.
“What’s he saying?” Miranda leaned back and whispered.
Matt’s arm slid around her waist, pulling her backside flush against him. He whispered in her ear. “He sings of long life, fertility, and joy in the couple’s physical union.”
She fingered the ruffle and glanced up with skepticism.
“Hold on, here comes the climax,” he whispered wickedly.
“Stop it!” A suppressed smile belied the forceful whisper.
The shaman’s chant trailed off, and he took a final step backward. A hushed expectancy built in the observers as he bent low at the waist and hovered. A second passed, then two. Then, with a low cry, the shaman rose until his arms extended above his head, a long braided grass rope stretched between his hands.
The cry turned into a deep-throated yell. With the speed of light, he brought the rope down to weave between the wrists of Zuli and Bakka.
Handfasted, the couple lifted their joined wrists to the sky amid robust cheers. Drums began beating again, and Miranda let out a good old-fashioned whoop of joy. She turned in Matt’s grasp, smiling up at him with eyes that sparkled.
Matt smiled back at her, feeling lighter and happier than he’d had in years. He pulled her into a celebratory hug and spun them in a circle. Her laughter washed over him like cool water on a hot day, and he closed his eyes, soaking in the sensation, breathing deep the alluring scent of her perfume.
“This one good medicine for my Matthew.”
Matt’s eyes flew open. Katomi stood beside them, grinning like the village idiot.
“Like my Zuli, you wait for mate of your heart. Proud for you, my young friend.”
“Not so fast, Chief.” Matt released Miranda, but held her close with an arm casually about her shoulders. “Meet Dr. Miranda Parrish, an animal dentist from America.”
Katomi beamed approval at her. “Proud to make your acquaintance.”
He looked proud, though probably because he had mastered the English greeting. Matt had worked hard to teach him enough to give him an advantage over other tribal leaders.
“What is dentist?” Katomi asked Miranda.
She pointed to her teeth. “I fix animal teeth.”
The chief snorted. “The lion? The cheetah? You fix fang?”
“People and animals need proper dental care for good health,” Miranda defended.
Katomi’s expression clearly said he thought her crazy, and Matt couldn’t stop grinning. This was the most fun he’d had in ages.
Grabbing one of Miranda’s arms, the chief twisted it this way and that, searching for who knew what. He didn’t find it, so he grabbed the other and did the same.
“What are you doing?” She cast a worried glance at Matt, and he just shrugged. He wasn’t about to stop the hilarity going on here.
“No marks.” Katomi released her. “Woman who tangle with lion gets bit.”
Matt laughed out loud.
“We have medicine that makes them sleep before I do my job,” Miranda tried to explain.
Clearly skeptical, Katomi looked to Matt for confirmation.
“It’s true,” Matt said, relenting.
The chief glanced back at Miranda with a new measure of respect. “Brave woman. Good match for young Matthew.”
Miranda sputtered in protest, but the chief only grunted.
“Time for
karamu
,” the chief said. Extending his hand to Matt, Katomi invited the traditional handshake and Matt obliged. “Eat hearty, young Matthew.”
“Live well, old friend,” he responded.
After he left, Miranda turned an exasperated gaze his direction. “He certainly has some fanciful notions.”
“You get used to it.”
“What did he mean by saying I’m good medicine for you?”
“Pay no attention.” The good humor of seconds ago began to slip away. “Katomi’s a born matchmaker. It’s a wonder Zuli held out as long as she did before getting married.”
He hoped Miranda bought the explanation. He wasn’t about to tell her that Katomi claimed Matt had never healed from the pain of his past. He wouldn’t dispute it. Was Miranda good medicine? One glance at her refreshing smile gave him the answer.
Absolutely.
But the best medicine would be justice with a capital J.
“What is
karamu
?” she asked.
“Something like the champagne wedding toast, only there’s a feast involved.”
And if his plan was to work, Miranda needed the key ingredient. He spied a basket of liquor-filled gourds nearby and snagged two.
He presented her with one, and she pulled the carved wooden stopper from the gourd, sniffed, and wrinkled her nose. “What is this stuff?”
“
Mampoer
. Its liquor brewed from native fruits and a little strong.” Actually it was more like a sledgehammer, but she said she liked surprises. He wouldn’t dream of spoiling this one.
“Bakka!” The crowd shouted out.
Gourds were raised, and Matt lifted his with an encouraging nod to Miranda. “They’re toasting the groom.”
She followed suit. When he took a long swig from his gourd, so did she.
Only he cut his short to watch her reaction. Her eyes flew open wide. She began frantically waving her hand at her lips as she swallowed the liquor, and then gasped for air.
He grinned. He wanted to feel bad, knew well the burn
mampoer
trailed from lips to gullet. He always welcomed it, but then, he was prepared.
“Heavens above!” She wiped at the tears pooling in her eyes. “People drink this stuff?”
“Believe it or not, some actually enjoy it. But it may be an acquired taste.” He just couldn’t seem to stop grinning. “You’ll get used to it by the time the night’s over.”
Dismay stared back at him. “We have to drink more?”
“We’ve only just begun.” He laughed at the horror that crossed her face. “Don’t worry, the first drink is always the worst. Next time won’t be so bad.”
“Zuli!” The crowd yelled.
Matt lifted his gourd in challenge and drank.
She did, too, though hers was more a sip. Even then she swallowed with a grimace. By the time the fourth toast came and went, he was proud to note she could swallow without any reaction at all. Except a developing case of the giggles, that was.
The drum’s tempo increased, signaling a wave of dancers to enter the ring. They kept pace with the beat, each dancing forward to toss wood on the bonfire. As sparks shot to the sky, they lifted their arms to the moon and called out prayers of prosperity and good fortune.
Miranda shot a suspicious glance at the wood he had deposited on the ground by their feet.
He knew what she was thinking when she quirked that eyebrow. “They bless the union by feeding the flames.” He shrugged. “Bakwena culture sees marriage as a union of two families, not just man and wife. A chieftain’s daughter is a major alignment and cause for great rejoicing. The celebration will last well into the night.”
He picked up the wood and handed a chunk to Miranda. “You brave enough to try it?”
With a stubborn lift of her chin she accepted the wood and the challenge. “Are you agile enough to keep up with me?”
“Try me, sweetheart.”
He placed a hand to the small of her back and together they jumped in line. They moved through the circle with the crowd, and when their turn came, she sashayed her way forward to toss her wood on the flames.
Matt’s eyes were drawn to the delicate sway of her hips. Like each dancer before her, she tossed in the wood and sparks flew high. When she stretched her arms to the moon, her back gently arched, and her ruffled shirt lifted to reveal a trim, tanned waist. Firelight played across her soft belly, and he stopped short, his heart thudding. His eyes greedily followed the ruffle upward across the soft swell of her breasts, to the sultry curve of her neck and free-flowing hair.
If not for a shove from behind, he would’ve started drooling.
Playing his part, he tossed wood on the fire and dropped back into the moving circle beside Miranda. She was laughing, her eyes bright with merriment as she clapped her hands and stomped her feet in rhythm with the drums. She never missed a step. Even when the tempo picked up, and the circle moved faster.