The air in the Lusaka community center was thick with the scent of roasted chicken and disappointment. It wasn't supposed to be like this. My cousin's wedding was supposed to be a joyous occasion, a celebration of love and family. Instead, it was a chaotic ballet of drunken brawls, misplaced cutlery, and guests with more food in their pockets than in their stomachs.
The ceremony itself went off without a hitch, a blur of white and pink, vows muttered, and rings exchanged. But as soon as the reception began, the whole thing went sideways. Uncle Ben, fueled by copious amounts of Chibuku, decided the best way to express his joy was to yell 'Chibuku for everyone!' at the top of his lungs. This prompted a near-riot, as the rest of the men, including my father, who claimed he only had “one” drink, joined the chorus of drunken shouts and boasts.
Meanwhile, Auntie Agnes, who was supposed to be holding my aunt's veil, accidentally doused it in a concoction of fruit punch and something that smelled suspiciously like gin. The veil, once a pristine white, was now a stained, sticky mess. My aunt, bless her heart, just laughed it off, though I could swear I saw a flicker of panic in her eyes.
The dance floor, a makeshift one constructed from sticky tarpaulin, quickly became the scene of the biggest disaster. Uncle Ben, in a fit of drunken bravery, decided he could salsa. This involved him attempting to spin my cousin's new wife, who, bless her soul, was now trying to navigate a lifeboat of a wedding dress. Instead of a romantic waltz, the scene was more reminiscent of a drunkard's attempt at a spinning teacup ride.
As the evening progressed, the food situation grew increasingly dire. Plates were disappearing faster than you could say “buffet.” The guests, who had already consumed more than their fair share of Chibuku, appeared to have developed an insatiable appetite for every dish on offer. I saw, with my own eyes, Mrs. Mwamba, a woman known for her impeccable manners, stuffing a whole roast chicken into her handbag, a look of triumph on her face.
My dad, who was actually doing a surprisingly good job of staying sober, confessed to me in a hushed whisper, 'You know what's really bothering me? I can’t even remember how many times I’ve been asked for money today. I’ve lost track!”
The wedding cake, a masterpiece of sugary artistry, was the final victim. A rogue Uncle Ben, attempting to recreate the 'salsa' scene with the cake as his partner, ended up with an entire tier smeared across his face. The remaining guests, now fueled by a potent mix of alcohol and hunger, surged forward, ripping the remaining cake to shreds.
The only sane person in the entire room seemed to be my cousin's new husband. He stood amidst the chaos, trying to maintain a dignified smile, his eyes twinkling with amusement. In a moment of clarity, he looked at me and said, 'This has to be the most chaotic wedding in Lusaka history...'
And he was right. It was a wedding for the ages, one I doubt we'll ever forget. It may not have been the romantic fairy tale we envisioned, but it was certainly an unforgettable and chaotic adventure. I left that night thinking maybe the best wedding memories are the ones you're not supposed to remember at all.
