Its three o’clock afternoon on a cold Kenyan winter. I’m shivering in a frosty breeze. The frigid cold is broken by endless bleating of goats, mooing of cows, and the howling of stray dogs barking at passing cars. We are at Maua town’s goat market in Meru County searching for a ‘special’ goat for a ceremony later in the day.
One made the grade, which was enough. We bought and hurriedly went on our way towards a small farming community cloistered in the hilly undulating terrain known as the Nyambene ranges. Along the road we pass sleepy market centers and groaning lorries packed to the hilt with fresh tea leaves enroute to a nearby factory. The smooth asphalt in this rural road snakes in circular motions on hairpin cliffs that afford spectacular views of lush small-holder tea estates.
From a distance they look like swanky well-manicured golf lawns.
Scores of hills jut out into the skies like dromedary humps towering above this land of green gold; khat (miraa) and tea.
Tiny buildings dot the landscape with shops, canteens, butcheries, bars; all huddling on each other for warmth and comfort. On nearing our destination we park our cars across the road and alight next to a path that’s only navigable by foot. Our sights trained towards the summit of a 200 meter walk up a steep and intimidating hill. Its brooding splendor deceiving our eyes.
Our main man was who has invited us to his ‘gwikia uthoni’ (a formal meeting of bride’s parents and the boy’s parents) ceremony, stood stoic between us while cradling a small bundle (gitundu) of wrapped Khat (miraa) on his bosom. We unload our gifts and prepare to climb up the hill to the bride-to-be’s homestead at the summit. A nagging question on everyone’s mind is what if they don’t accept us?
The big kahuna of a hill is a daunting task that makes us break into teams. We have brought gifts including heavy bales of sugar, rice, wheat flour, corn flour, crates of sodas and lots of other stuff. I have never huffed and puffed in a long time until I carried a bale of flour solo to the top of the hill. Ahead of us the elderly uncles strolled with the goat held by a rope as they sauntered towards the girl’s homestead on a spying mission.
To check if conditions were friendly or hostile. The goat is tethered on a tree stump several meters from the girl’s homestead as they cautiously approach the neighborhood.
Meru people take their cultural ceremonies seriously. Bantu by origin, they are composed of several sub-groups sharing a common ancestry, language, and culture. They are the Tigania, Igembe, Mwimbi, Miutuni, Imenti, Igoji, Chuka, Tharaka, and Muthambi. Some Merus are also Cushitic in origin.
On this day we are going for ‘uthoni’ in the Igembe section. By the time I hobbled onto a spot next to the goat I was gasping for breath. Warm puffs of misty air blowing out of our panting mouths as if we were smoking cigars.
A signal is sent out. The coast is clear. We can now enter the homestead. Fortunately we leave the heavy gifts, including the goat, behind us as we trudge into the homestead. A gang of brothers, sisters, cousins, relatives, and friends.
We are warmly received and shown a place to sit at the main quadrangle of the homestead. Seats are positioned in a way both families sit facing each other. Of all things we had brought only the gitundu of miraa — which they called miraa ya rondo — was allowed into the homestead.
Our spokesman was an elderly uncle and a veteran in such ceremonies. He stands and informally introduces us. Then turns to the suitor who wants the lady’s hand and orders him to handover the gitundu to his girl.
The 10 inch long reddish miraa twigs are wrapped up in a fresh banana leaf and tied round in an ascending fashion using a thin but taut forest rope. This miraa has few blemishes on the twigs unlike the ordinary ones and its stem is leafless. It’s rarely found in local markets except when it’s sought for such ceremonies.
Her entrance is greeted with formal clapping. Her soon-to-be hubby gives her the gitundu of miraa. If she rejects it the ceremony is over. I shiver in the cold as she stares at it without making a move.
Under other circumstances the cold chill could have been a welcome distraction but now we were all anxious. After a long minute of hesitation she takes a twig and delicately bites it and chews slowly. In a moment, pleasure is dancing in her eyes as a grin spreads on her happy face. We have passed the toughest test. It felt as if a warm wind has gusted through the homestead from the mist-shrouded forest behind us. The women ululate and the mood turns to party mode. She then hands a few twigs to her fiancé who chews them with gusto.
The gitundu is then passed to an elder from the girl’s family. He scrutinizes the banana leaf wrapper and the forest rope before he plucks a twig and takes a bite. Like a fine wine connoisseur he gingerly chews it. His head nods and we know we have passed this test. The gitundu is then passed to the girl’s father who takes a bite from a twig and approves the quality.
The girl’s father then passes it around to folks from both sides of the family to chew on a few twigs as if it’s a wedding cake.
A sumptuous meal is served by beaming soon-to-be in-laws. In the background, the dull wash of the evening sun spreads long shadows. I learnt usually this meru ceremony begins on the evening. Lots of Kukus, rice and beef are on the menu. One thing you can never miss in any meru ceremony is kithanda (mashed bananas mixed with maize or beans) and mokimo (mashed potatoes and green peas with pumpkin leaves). And the Kenyan party staple – chapatis. After munching to our fill formal introductions begin.
After introductions our spokesman says our intention was only to come and visit their homestead and to bring some miraa.
An uncle walks out and returns with the goat. It’s called nthenge ya miraa. It has to be an indigenous meru goat. An untainted native pure breed whose bloodline is unsullied. Our spokesman gives the goat to the bride’s family. Other gifts are also brought forward but the goat is the centerpiece.
Similar to the miraa package the goat goes through thorough scrutiny. After confirming it is a pure breed cheers rent the air thawing the cold chill. It is now time for the elders to meet inside the house to negotiate the bride price, which is usually paid in installments. Sometimes a lifetime.
Among the Ameru people marriage is a process that can takes up to a year/s before wrapping up with a grand wedding. In the old days when a young man fell in love with a damsel his parents would arrange for a meeting with the girl’s people. Sometimes lovers eloped and community elders ambled along the village path with the boy’s parents in tow to visit the girl’s home and report the ‘crime.’ A meeting was arranged for a particular day where the boy’s parents met a posse of elders invited by the girl’s family to resolve the issue amicably.
As our entourage was heading to the negotiating table one of the girl’s negotiators dropped a bombshell. He said there were no girls for sale from the homestead and if that was our purpose we were in the wrong hood. Quickly his mouth was clamped shut with a Kshs 5,000 token placed on his grubby hand. The issue died immediately as the negotiator walked into the room in high spirits. An hour later they walk out grinning and laughing. The negotiation has been smooth and fruitful.
In Meru culture as I learnt not much emphasis is put on the dowry. But some suitors are known to pay millions because Kenyan men say meru women come with a lifetime guarantee. In some Kenyan communities parents ask for extortionate fees as if it’s a transaction and not the building of a new relationship between two families and communities.
Traditionally in meru if a suitor came from a poor background, or was an orphan, the community elders negotiated on his behalf. Also members of the community helped in the dowry payment in whatever way they could or it was waived.
Our man heaved a sigh of relief when darkness engulfed the neighborhood. He’d just been saved from choosing his bride from a parade of veiled beauties. With the ceremony over we stumble downhill like drunkards, creeping, slipping, and, sliding on the wet surface as we escaped the freezing weather while gloating over the warm reception accorded by our new family members.
the peculiar kenyan 