Holy Matrimony

It took me three months, and 210 meals (who’s counting?), but the other afternoon, I returned to my laptop to find a nice white envelop upon my desk, Mr. Brian penned in blue ink across the bottom right corner. I could feel my heartbeat accelerating, and not just because I had finished a bottle of Coca Cola. I’ve become conditioned to know that a white envelope on my desk contains cash, payment, money for services rendered, money for services never rendered.

This time, I opened the envelope to find not cash, but rather an invitation to Florence’s wedding. Florence is a part of the school’s kitchen staff and I was rather embarrassed for not even knowing that she was in a relationship, but felt honored to be invited nonetheless.

As the wedding approached, my nerves were building. Mere hours before the wedding, I found myself tied up (and throwing up) on the road from Tamale, and I don’t have a perfect track record when it comes to arriving to weddings on time. Thankfully, I arrived just in time. My invitation was stamped noon. It turns out everyone else’s was stamped one pm. Cool. My colleagues and I were escorted to the second row.

Well, the ceremony was beautiful, despite it not being in English. I was enjoying spectator privileges until the lady sitting next to me poked me and told me that it was our turn. I could hear the susurrous whispers of the congregation.

Our turn? What do you mean by our turn? I probed. You and your colleagues are supposed to sing a song for the bride and groom. I’m sorry…what? We’re supposed to sing a song to the bride and groom? Right now?

My mind quickly jumped into panic mode. The first song that came to mind was Cee Lo Green’s F*** You, which I immediately dismissed as being outrageously inappropriate. My next thought was, what songs do Americans, Dutch, and Pakistanis all know – Happy Birthday? I was weighing the merits of a song that had meaning for matrimony and a song that the international group of colleagues would recognize. Clearly, ubiquity trumped meaningfulness. Thankfully, one of the Ghanaians in our program recognized our visible agitation, volunteered a hymn, and began singing to the congregation. I just stood on stage awkwardly swaying back and forth. It’s times like these where I find myself convinced that I am the cultural experiment instead of the other way around.