11 cows

It’s a confusing thing when two men are asking you questions in a language you don’t understand – especially when one of them is dressed only in animal skins and carrying a large war shield and stabbing spear.

I was proud of myself for getting it on the second try, albeit a little startled with the translation and their excited confirmation. “He has six wives, you have two, and you want me to be number three?” I asked. From the hand clapping and smiles I realized that I had gotten it right, and jumped in quickly with a polite refusal. There was a slight hitch in the wedding plans as they realized that my father wasn’t there to accept the bride price of 11 cows.

We toured the village, watched the men making spears and shields and the women pots and beaded ornaments. We got to smell the medicine man’s herbs, and watch the tribal dances. We even tried a sip of the local beer offered in hospitality – a rather gritty beverage we learned had been strained through a reed basket.

How can I turn down the offer? I would get my own hut, my own wooden pillow, and join a culture rich in tradition. And I’m already learning the language, even though the clicks have been a bit difficult. And dad, I forgot to tell them where to send the cows.

So I think I’m going to hold out for a proposal to be a first wife, or maybe a few more cows.