Abidah's party

7th April 2007

Today Bernadette and I are going to Abidah’s kitchen party in Lusaka with our colleagues Esther, Odesta and Mrs Mwale. Abidah worked in Mpanshya as a pharmacist until a few months ago, when she left to join her fiancé in the Copperbelt (to the disappointment of Chas and Joost, who still go slightly misty at the mention of her name). A kitchen party is a kind of bridal shower, where all the female friends of the prospective bride get together and present her with gifts. I have dressed in accordance with the directions on the invitation (which specifies that the colour scheme is black, white and silver) and I go to meet the others at the hospital entrance, only to find Mrs Mwale resplendent in a blue chitambala. Apparently the colour scheme only applies to the gifts. It is too late to change, so I get in the minibus and set off for Lusaka with the others.

We arrive at the address on the invitation to find that the party is being held in the garden rather than the kitchen, so we pick a shady spot and watch the other guests arriving. Soon the garden is full of women in elaborate wigs, tottering round in jewelled sandals and swigging Fanta out of glass bottles. We wait a couple of hours without anything much happening. Then some women begin drumming, and suddenly there is an outbreak of free-form dancing on the lawn. A lady in a red kaftan jigs past, blowing on a whistle. She is a vision of exuberance, apparently oblivious to everything around her her, but she suddenly notices that I have a camera in my hand. She breaks off her dance to pose for me, and then disappears briefly, returning with her friend for a second photo.

Finally Abidah is led in to the centre of the circle, her face obscured by a sheet draped over her head. Zambian tradition dictates that the bride should not look up at her guests, so she keeps her eyes fixed on the ground when she is unveiled by her elders. I struggle to follow most of what follows, but there seems to be a lot of advice given to Abidah on how to keep her husband happy, accompanied by a generous measure of illustrative hip shaking. Everyone laughs and shouts; I feel like I have stepped into a slightly bawdy cartoon. The party carries on even when it starts to rain, encouraged by the woman with the whistle, who declares defiantly “It’s not showers! It’s blessings!”

And then St Luke’s are called forward to present their gifts. I have been briefed on kitchen party etiquette, and I know that I am expected to dance before handing over my coffee pot. I also know that I’ll never be able to shake it like the Zambian girls, but I’d hate to be accused of not trying. So, under the scrutiny of our fellow guests, I dance for Abidah with my colleagues. I catch her glancing upwards as we strut our stuff, and am grateful to note that she is trying not to laugh.