To eat well at weddings, you need big connections

There is no love lost between yours truly and weddings. I deliberately avoid them as much as I can. But once in a while, against my wishes, the girls in my household drag me to one so that they can see bibi harusi.

Last weekend, they convinced me to grace a wedding in my mtaa. Attending a wedding is a risky affair for men these days. Due to the current biting scarcity of husband materials, some smitten mama can grab you, march you to the officiating padre and before you know it, the man of God has already declared you man and wife.

Anyway, I donned my godfather hat, hailed my cousin Kamaley and off we hit the road. I didn't tell him where we were going lest he chickened out since he dislikes weddings too. Or to put it in his own words, he is always so well-groomed that in a wedding, he fears he could be mistaken for the groom.

As a rule, I always make sure I arrive at a wedding in its twilight moments. Say hi to the newlyweds, give them my bahasha and sneak out. Last Saturday, we miscalculated so we arrived at the reception only to find food being served. Which might have created the impression that we went there solely to eat.

We took our seats silently then watched as plates loaded with aromatic pishori rice and other riparian dishes did rounds. Plus, some boiled cabbages - an obligatory item in the mountain cuisine. Gradually, we noted that the people serving food had no shughuli with us. Not that we were concerned, though. Kamaley had promised to buy us some tumbukiza on our way home.

Then, a buxom mama came to us with plates loaded with mountains of pilau, njahi, minji stew and a healthy serving of meat. I dug into the food with gusto. Kamaley, my ever-famished cousin, also ate like a prisoner, licking his plate clean in ten minutes flat.

When the wedding cake was cut, my girls got a plateful of their own delivered right to their laps. We couldn't understand how we got such five-star treatment in a wedding where we hardly knew anyone. After we had eaten to our fill, a shrill-voiced mama shouted 'harusi tunayo' and the dancing started. We found it hard to concentrate on all that. So we took toothpicks and sauntered to our car, our well-fed vitambis leading the way.

"How was the pilau?" A text came through into my phone. It was my cousin Njeri who had been working behind the scenes to see to it that we got a hefty serving of pilau Njeri. I texted her back that the meal was superb. Plus, the cake she sent to my girls.

"Hizo ni beer tano." She texted right back. Nothing from our girls comes for free. Weddings are like government offices. To be served well there, one needs big connections.

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