The air hung thick with the scent of roasted maize and exhaust fumes, a familiar cocktail in Lusaka. You stood on the dusty corner, your carefully pressed linen suit feeling a little too formal for the chaotic scene. You eyed the sprawling, vibrant market with its symphony of hawkers, their voices blending with the honking of cars and the insistent rhythm of the kabaza drivers. And you, you were going to marry into this.
Your best friend, Chansa, had somehow convinced you that marrying into a Zambian family would be an adventure, a cultural immersion you wouldn't regret. 'They're funny, welcoming,' she'd assured, 'and they love a good party.' Funny, you thought, watching a group of women haggle over a bag of tomatoes as if it were a priceless jewel. Welcoming, maybe, but the idea of a party held in a market stall wasn't quite what you had in mind.
Chansa had introduced you to her family in a whirlwind of introductions and hugs, punctuated by the loud, booming laughter of her father. Her mother, a woman whose smile could outshine the midday sun, had embraced you with the warmth of a thousand suns, calling you 'mwana' – child – from the moment you stepped into their home. There was a charm to it all – the vibrant colors of their house, the scent of cooking spices, the infectious laughter, the way everyone seemed to know everyone else.
But then came the introduction to your future in-laws. Specifically, Chansa's uncle, a man named Benson. Benson, you discovered, was a man of immense stature and even more immense opinions, expressed with a booming voice that echoed through the market. Every time he spoke, it was as if the entire market held its breath, waiting for the next proclamation.
'He is a good man,' Chansa had reassured you, her voice a bit quieter than usual, 'Just... enthusiastic.'
Enthusiastic was an understatement. The first time Benson met you, he proclaimed that you were 'the perfect son-in-law!' before launching into a detailed analysis of your business prospects, complete with some questionable financial advice. You tried to politely steer the conversation, but your attempts were met with a boisterous dismissal as Benson continued his monologue, punctuated by loud, theatrical sighs.
The first week you spent with your future in-laws was a blur of chaotic experiences. One evening you were at a family gathering where you were unexpectedly thrust into an impromptu drumming session, the only person in the room who didn't know what he was doing. Another day, Benson took you on a whirlwind sightseeing tour of Lusaka, stopping only for a quick bite at a roadside stall that resembled a converted shipping container, complete with live chickens clucking a symphony of dissent.
You loved Chansa. You loved the vibrant chaos of her family. But you weren't sure if you were ready for this much culture shock. Was this what Chansa meant by 'adventure'?
One Saturday, you found yourself at the market, helping Chansa’s mother choose the freshest mangoes. You were surrounded by the cacophony of the market, trying to decipher the chatter of a dozen different languages while trying to remember how many mangoes were 'just right' for a family gathering.
It was at that moment, overwhelmed by the sights, smells, and sounds of the market, that you realized something important. You felt a warmth, a feeling of belonging, a connection that was deeper than the cultural differences and the occasional booming pronouncements of your future uncle.
You looked at Chansa, her eyes gleaming with infectious laughter as she expertly haggled for the best price on a bunch of bananas. This is who you were going to marry. This was the life you were going to embrace.
And you, you were going to learn to love the chaos, the vibrant energy, and yes, even the occasional booming pronouncements of the enthusiastic Benson, because this was your new family and this was your life. You were going to be a Lusaka son-in-law, and you were going to love every chaotic, colorful, loud moment of it.
