The royal wedding has nuthin’ on Rwandan matrimony

This weekend I attended my very first Rwandan wedding! I’ve been hearing about these ubiquitous get-togethers since long before Rwanda was even on my radar, so when my host family gave me the invite––I simply knew I couldn’t miss out.

Rwandan weddings are complex processes by nature. Traditionally, they last several days as there are three separate parts: the traditional ceremony, the religious one, and the civil formalities (in that order). Luckily I was summoned to the fun part which surprise surprise––is not the religious or civil gathering.

Per usual, my host parents were fairly vague on the time-front when it came to “when should I be ready to go?” I'm starting to think this whole being-prepared-for-everything-two-hours-earlier-than-anticipated habit is really gonna pay off for me back in the states. We left around 2 p.m. Roland wore a knee-length, fitted purple dress with kitten heels and red lipstick. She had gotten her hair curled at the salon earlier in the day which possibly upstaged my loose ponytail just a hint. Daddy wore a sleek, gray, rental suit with flowery-patterned lapels and shiny brown dress shoes. I on the other hand, did not pack any clothes of equal prestige. It’s 100% my fault too because SIT even put “wedding attire” on the packing list that I conveniently ignored.

I wore a navy short sleeve tucked into a flowy maxi skirt with a blue flower-design (I’ll admit my colors weren't too poorly coordinated so at least I had some dignity left in that department). Seeing as I’ve become a substance over style fashionista in the past four weeks, I decided that my white Air Force Ones would really top off the ensemble.

My host parents and I walked for about three minutes before succumbing to the heat and hailing a cab. Taxis are generally more expensive on a Rwandan standard, but dirt-cheap in comparison to a New York meter. The wedding was in Kicukiro which is only about a ten-minute ride from our house but I almost wished it had been farther. Since becoming a slave to Kigali’s jam-packed public transportation, the spacious leather backseat felt like a blessing.

We pulled up to a massive white tent on the right side of a busy street, next to a bright red Meru gas station which is obviously every little girl’s wedding-day dream destination. Aside from some immediate family, there weren’t many guests seated when we showed up (a Rwandan event running behind schedule?? Gasp!) Daddy introduced me to his mother and a couple brothers before escorting me to a chair at a round table with a sequined, pink runner and a vase of white flowers. Every table had a classic assortment of bottled Rwandan beverages: Skol, Skol Malt, Amstel, Fanta, Coke, and the least-exciting, but my personal favorite, water. After doting on me and ensuring I was comfortable, Daddy and Roland departed to partake in wedding-party duties. The bride happened to be a sister of Daddy’s which meant my host parents had to be all work and no play when it came to refreshments, greeting guests, and making sure everything ran smoothly. I didn’t mind the abandonment so much, the tent was massive and I welcomed the downtime as an opportunity to remark on the decorative space.

Long strings of twinkle lights ran up and down the ceiling of the tent while flowers, greenery, and traditional woven baskets adorned the walls. A good-sized stage sat in the front displaying two throne-like chairs covered in fur.

After an hour or so, more people began to show up and by 4, I was convinced we wouldn’t have enough chairs for everyone to sit. There must have been four hundred guests in attendance and that’s probably low-balling it judging by the rows of people that were forced to watch from outside of the tent due to a lack of space.

Most women wore customary mushananas which are the ceremonial dresses worn in Rwanda, Uganda and Burundi. Even Roland changed into a green one upon arrival. They’re usually made of satin or chiffon-like fabric with colorful floral patterns. Mushananas are traditionally pinned above one shoulder and draped across the body, making them sort of a cross between a toga and a sash. Although every woman was wearing a mushanana regardless of whether or not she was in the bridal party––only the bridesmaids were color-coordinated and seemed to be wearing matching tube-tops.

Signaling the next wedding phase, a lively MC came out with a microphone and said/sang a few words in Kinyarwanda. A group of singers dressed in purple congregated just outside the tent entrance and began to sing an introduction song with drums. As if rallied by the musical summons, a batch of male and female dancers in matching yellow outfits suddenly made their way inside. They danced in-sync with rapid movements of the arms and legs that somehow looked intense and graceful at the same time. Each of the dancers had bells attached to their ankles making every step as auditory as it was visual.

After the dancing performance, the fatherly negotiations commenced. This lengthy process involves the father of the groom providing a dowry to the father of the bride––usually in the form of alcohol and cows. The two dads and their respective families were seated directly across from each other at separate long tables. For about an hour and a half, the fathers haggled in Kinyarwanda through microphones over family values, religion and various topics that one discusses when passing off his daughter. Luckily, the young man seated behind me, translated most of the conversation which seems to be an undeserved common theme for me lately.

The two fathers occasionally got up to hug and share a drink, but for a majority of the time, stayed seated. In the end, the groom’s father had provided three fancy-looking bottles of liquor and promised two cows in return for the bride. The cow payment is a huge cultural ordeal in Rwanda––it even has its own designated pastoral committee tasked with ensuring that the cows are indeed real and healthy. Each of the cow guys wore a matching white gown with a brown sash and carried a curved wooden cane. They were rewarded with beers after informing the bride’s father of the positive cow status through several ceremonial melodies.

Once the trade was set in stone, the groom, who oddly enough did not seem to play huge role in his own wedding, embraced each member of the bride’s family and took his rightful place seated on the stage.

Finally came the moment we'd all been waiting for... the bride! I think maybe her entrance was supposed to be a surprise, but the massive crowd of bridesmaids lined up in front of the tent was a dead giveaway. Although I had no earthly idea of what Rwandan wedding dresses even remotely resemble––I was still surprised to see the bride strut in wearing a bright pink gown. Despite the faint prom vibes, she looked absolutely gorgeous.

Once the bride and groom joined one another up on-stage, the ceremony became fairly similar to any American wedding. There were some vows, some videotaping, and most importantly––an exchange of rings. The only difference I noticed was which finger the metal band was placed on. In the U.S. we all know the ring finger is next to the pinky on your left hand, but if I'm not mistaken, it seems the Rwandan version is on your middle finger. Way more badass if you ask me.

The final proceedings involved lots of photographers (which I forgot to mention there were probably five of in total) and gifts. All of the women in the bridal party were responsible for bringing presents up to the happy couple where they would be posed with for photos but not opened. I left around 6:30 p.m. figuring the ceremony was mostly finished––of course I couldn't possibly sneak out without taking a couple hundred pictures with my host parents.

Any and all expectations I had for experiencing a Rwandan wedding were surely exceeded which is pretty insane considering this one was smaller than the average (at least that's what I'm told).

After all of that, I'm left with just one question: How many cows would it take to wed me off, dad?