#16: African Wedding
By Bilal Mohamed
The family migrated from the Indian Ocean to the Pacific Coast, then into a land of lakes. “Our people are here”, they say, as rain and sleet fall softly to their faces, water seeps into water, becoming one with their pores. Khat and shisha heat their cold bodies in basements at negative degrees. No music played, no dancing took place at the ceremony succinct. Bride and parents bestowed gifts of large American dollar signs. White thobes and sports jackets. Bright gowns and hundred-pound curtains. Dim, heavy lighting compressed oxygen in deep halls and slanted stairways.
Groom and his entourage step in unison — Right. Up. Left. Up. Hands fix collars, dust off shoulders, wrist meets oils meets nose, meets neck. Doors open and heads turn to the sound of female tongues maneuvering in agile acrobatic movements, a sound foreign to this land that lacks culture. But their people are here, in this hall. They belong, and this room to them. A room where a hand does not enter and leave without fingers painted turmeric - a quick-to-dry medium, punishing to smear like a father’s smile.
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