groom – Jerry Lout ⚬ Writer ⚬ Speaker ⚬ Mobilizer

October 26, 2023October 25, 2023

Mixed Sensations

Choctaw, Oklahoma.

By the time our plane touched down at Will Rogers Airport, the four of us – typical of any who’s just traversed nine time zones – were ready for an environment change.

From our plane’s starting descent to Will Rogers, I had begun pondering afresh the hazy landscape stretched before us. The vast and wondrous place we had grown to call home – the continent of Africa – lay in our past, at least for now. Images called up through the rearview mirror can stir a special gathering of comforts to the soul. Especially when one is alternating between nostalgic scenes of the past and a fog of bewildering landscapes out ahead.

Shifting my mind to the immediate future a sense of happy anticipation began to rise. Similar stirrings of emotion found their way to Ann and Scott and Amy. Our reunion with Julie lay just ahead. How had she grown up so fast? In a mere two weeks from now she would take my arm to be escorted – my beautifully-gowned princess – down to the wedding altar and her waiting groom. Meanwhile, here in the present moment above OKC the bride’s ever practical mother tweaked her set of musings, Will the dress fit well?

Catching sight of Julie – her bright smile signaling the pleasure of spotting family – stirred our feet to pick up their pace. Two years before, having brought her to the States after high school, we had bid some teary farewells. Our journey back to Africa brought home a too-obvious fact. Our family’s usual ‘fifth passenger’ seat sat vacant, a fact offering nothing to elevate our mood.

A handsome young man donning western wear stood at Julie’s side as we approached.

Seeing her daughter’s fiancé for the first time Ann’s mind went momentarily to that particular garment in the works. A near-complete, carefully arranged wedding dress – making its way right now (hopefully) toward the baggage claim carousel.

The drive from Oklahoma City to Choctaw and to the ever-welcoming presence of my sister and brother-in-law was covered in minutes. Betty and Gene’s residence with its tree-festooned landscape had, since the early 70s, served in some measure as our home base during mission furloughs. Soon we were shuttling a parade of luggage pieces across the entryway into their home.

Further transitions lay ahead. Into just what? We hardly knew.

May 5, 2018May 7, 2018

Bovine Bargaining

“Thirty-eight”, the young man replied.

“Really, thirty-eight?”

“Yes”. My new friend’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Thirty-eight cows”.

How does an Oklahoma boy take in – not to mention, digest – rural Africa’s matrimony language?

“But, suppose the young man can’t come up with that many? What happens?”

“Oh, sometimes the girl’s father negotiates. . . you know, back and forth.”

“And, if they still can’t agree on a number that works?”

“Well, the young man goes away, with hopes the mzee will somehow lower the dowery. The girl’s father also hopes. . . that a more well-off suitor comes by.”

***

Among the many settings international workers encounter in their new culture is the world of matrimony.

What’s the delay?

I had grown a little impatient over the past half hour. It was wedding day. I had gotten volunteered to drive the bride and attendant from her family home – a simple dwelling well off the beaten path – to the church. A decked-out choral group waited there, watching for our arrival. The groom likewise waited. And waited.

“Brother Jerry, it seems the old man wants more cows or more money. . . or something. . . an added dowry, a sum not discussed earlier, to close the arrangement.”

As the fussing went on – a bridegroom rep laboring to cajole, allure, persuade the old man – I noticed a diesel-belching 2-ton lorry enter property. Twenty or so adults, mostly women in colorful dress. . . several men formally garmented. . . jostled about within, trying to stay upright as the truck half-circled to a stop. Because of the last-minute dowry challenge the festive mood had subsided. All appeared resigned to wait things out. Apparently the tactical game playing out wasn’t so new to the tribe. They got the picture. . . Give the old man time. He likely won’t risk losing face before the clan leaders by sticking in his heels much longer. Not for adding a mere one or two more skinny cows.

My curiosity grew. How will this turn out?

May 8, 2018May 7, 2018

Quite A Steal

I waited in the car outside while bride-to-be and her attendants did what females do in an African wedding prep-hut. Excited giggles found their way past thin walls to the outside.

Turning my attention again to the outdoor place where the feisty papa of the bride had parked himself for the verbal contest, I noticed what appeared to be an attitude shift. The gray-haired man, in his effort to extract more dowry treasures from the groom’s family, raised his hand slowly. The patriarch tilted his head downward and nodded – signaling, I thought (and hoped) a civil concession. Glancing to the east I winced. Those gathering clouds look headed our way.

An outbreak of measured laughter sounded from the gathering of elders near the old man. Then, excited jostling and laughter as the open lorry took in more eager passengers. All was good. My passenger doors swung open. The bride and three of her maids squished themselves with their bright billowing dresses into the vehicle.

Due to the drawn-out dowry bargaining, the ceremony got a late start. It was indeed rainy season and the early afternoon downpour began pounding the church’s tin roof. The volume rose, all but muting the voices of the bride and groom pledging their mutual devotion.

Africa weddings, I smiled, Nothing quite like them. Drenched celebrants – including those trying in vain with colorful umbrellas to stave off the blowing torrent – hooted and sang and celebrated on.

The deluge finally passed. Despite the wet conditions and the dowry drama, the knot had gotten tied for the couple. . . all was well.

Festivities drawn to a close, the Peugeot – her wet and weary navigator at the wheel – sloshed and slid along muddy rivulets to the main road.

Reentering our home six hours after parting for the nuptial event, I gratefully received the mug of hot chai my bride offered me at the door. Moving toward a room where dry garments awaited, I chuckled back to her as I went,

“Even at 38 cows, darlin’, you would have been a great bargain!”