The nature of Somali weddings

She walks in with artificial grace. The long, white bridal gown with the veil seems so ill placed among the exaggerated bling and colourful garments the guests are wearing. Old, sweaty aunts clap their hands and welcome the bride in a traditional matter as the crowd lead her and the tail of six bridesmaids to the podium set for them. The podium consisting of two gigantic chairs, reminding me of fairytale thrones, whilst they’re probably rented for 50$ an hour at the local Somali shop. On the podium there are also normal chairs, reserved for the many bridesmaids and anyone having the urge for 15 seconds of fame. Yes, finally the white ghost takes her seat, whoops; I mean bride takes her seat.

After that, all the guests who’ve been standing and clapping their hands until they couldn’t feel them anymore return to their seats. The table ranging is of no significance, because you’ll probably have to change your seat anyway, see you will most likely be seated in a table with old aunts giving you remarks on your look and criticizing you for not being married or you’ll end up with a group of young, oestrogen filled girls chatting about getting married and giving you remarks on your look.

Seeing that the tables are arranged in a horseshoe form, there is plenty of room to dance. Oh yes, dance. The band, there is a band of course, is made of four, sleazy men with oversized white suits (for the occasion) and lots of gel on their frizzy hair. To your horror they start singing, love songs, Somali love songs or if the party is really really wild, the four sleazy men look down at the crowd and sing (rather sour): I want it that a way.

What about the dancing?
Well, naturally not all people have the groove and oddly enough those who have the groove aren’t the ones who start dancing. Infact, there’s always this one weird uncle who starts shaking it. Then he drags equally weird aunts with him. Sooner or later, often sooner, a young crowd joins them and starts the jiggy. Yet none of them have any rhythm rythe men try to fusion Saturday Night Fever with the best of hiphop dancing but the women are definitely the most remarkable species on the dance floor. None of them actually move their feet, they rock from side to side with their hands held up high as if they were in tuned into slow motion while running.

Where are the honor guests in this feast? They’re well situated on the podium, I say they because I forgot to mention the groom. Although that’s really not a surprise, the groom is the least significant person in his own wedding party. The camera man zooms into the bride and tries to capture every thread on her gown. Understandable really, because her dress seems more joyful than she does, the bride gazes down at her guests with a grumpy look on her face and the only time actually smiles, the smile is so forced and fake that one would wish she simply remained grumpy.

I shouldn’t be so harsh on Somali weddings now; there are many advantages with them. Ok, not that many, I usually sneak to the kitchen or buffet after three hours of pretending to enjoy myself, , pull out the little goodie bag I brought along and secretly shove a lot of food in it. Then I grab one or two sodas and find myself a nice seat outside in the fresh air and start consuming as much food as possible – (thank God for the diric, never makes you feel fat). Then I stare at the stars and dream away; hope that my wedding won’t be filled by fake people. In my wedding, I’m going to smile.