The Wedding of Innocent and Karabo

It is 1:00 am. We gingerly side-step a tangle of kids and blankets, steps away from the carcass of a freshly slaughtered cow, then tip-toe down the concrete floor hallway, to the room at the back of the Mandigo family home in Francistown.

Lilian awakes as we enter the room, and indicates that she and her aunts and cousins had saved the bed for her sister Emmah and me. I unfurl my sleeping bag, step over the sleeping beauties, and fall asleep, banishing images of rats scuttling above my bedroom ceiling 400km away in my Gaborone house.

The next morning, wedding preparations are well underway. Orange scarves are dipped into vases that serve as table centre pieces. Carved chunks of cow are ferried to the back of the house for preparation for the feast.

We take a short drive to drop off some breakfast supplies to the bridal party staying at a nearby house. Little girls with intricately braided and beaded hair run through the living room, giving us a glimpse of the glamour to come.

Back at the Mandigo house, I make fast friends with 9 year-old cousins, Naledi and Ashley, once I show them how to apply Canadian maple leaf tattoos. There are none left for 12 year-old, Rachel, but I make up for it by lending her my camera to capture her perspective of the wedding proceedings.

The resounding ululations of the groom's aunties and grannies signal the arrival of the wedding party. The bride's family and groom's family then take part in a friendly sing-off, as the bridal party slowly dances down the aisle to the wedding tent. For the rest of the day, they never walk, but dance, whenever they enter or leave the tent.

This is the third of three wedding celebrations for Emmah's brother Innocent, and his bride Karabo. Karabo means 'Answer'.  Her answer is 'Yes' -- three times 'Yes'.

After speeches, readings, a catered feast, including freshly boiled and pounded seswa (beef from the butchered cow), and a photo session at the manicured grounds of a nearby hotel, the bridal party leaves to change their attire.

I am resting in the living room with the scarved and shawled aunties and grannies, when the bride in her second dress enters the room and sits down on the floor. The aunties and grannies leave their seats and sit on the floor, at the bride's feet. I glance over at Emmah, who is standing the corner, and silently ask if I should leave. She indicates, no.

I then witness what must be a time honoured tradition of dispensing advice to the new bride. Karabo is ceremoniously cloaked in a shawl and head-scarf, signifying her induction into the sorority of wives. She respectfully listens to the words of wisdom from each wife, which are seconded by cheers and ululations.

A bbq and dance follow through the night. I am too tired to take more than one bite of tasty grilled steak, before reclaiming my spot in the back bedroom.