The Wailing Bride

Along the main path from the market 
A happy troupe of youth stream by 
With a prized possession in tow 

Amid excited chatter enchanting tunes 

That pierce the moonlit night 
Far and long with a message of hope;

A nuptial announcement.

'The great great great grandson

Of back into legendary ancestors

Has married his sweetheart!'

Says the song.

Women mount their rooftops 
To ululate the singing party 
Wayeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeiiiiiiii!!!.

Read: Village Boy Impressions - My Sugar Runs Out

Often, the enchanting tunes and ululations 
Are lost upon one member of the party 
The tear-stained sobbing bride; 

The bitter-sweetheart!
This teary companion is 

carried, dragged, or pushed along 

Angry, pained, helpless, and wearied. 
An unwilling bride treading resentfully 
With frequent loud shrieks and sobs 
Oblivious of the excitement 
Of her exultant abductors 
And their ululaters from many rooftops. 
And they in turn numb to her wishes.

The triumphant troupe of contrasts
Marches home with their prize; 
A wailing and unwilling bride! 
But they believe her teary hysteria

Only matches her passion for the groom.

And thus convinced and obstinate,

They stream along gleefully.

Many once captured in similar fashion,

That once yelled and kicked and cried hoarse

And now resigned to their roles

As wives and mothers

Ululate the raiders with delight!

Read: Village Boy Impressions - The Song of Atuga

Thus the spectacle moves on

And we anxiously await the nuptial feast

Tonight and many other nights to come.

The wailing bride will be celebrated

Comforted and cajoled

With many guinea fowls

Until she too, like her mothers

Resign herself or accept her ‘marriage’.

Not all the brides do cry though.

Many go as happily as my mother did!

But many cry as hysterically

As my sister, once rescued.

All destined to be made into wives,

And mothers and grand mothers,

And to live happily and die old.

And the good old tradition

Slouches on.

When will it end? None seem to know

But who is to judge or to arbitrate

If not the same captors and captives?

I heard the singing and ululation

As I suckled my mother’s breast

I saw and heard it again

As I run and play with my mates

And now, growing bald with age

I hear stories and whispers

But surely they cannot be true

Can they?

Read: Village Boy Impressions - The Matrimonial Dance

I ask myself now and then

If is it a case of cherished tradition

Accepted and valued even by the captives

Or of slaves wanting to see others in fetters? 

Many questions but no answers.

But may be an answer is less needful

What is truly much needed

Is how to get the ward

Of the once sobbing bride

To be the next engineer, architect

diplomat, scientist, banker

inventor, poet and politician

When this is done and dusted

Then the brides will all go merrily

Having no need to rebel

As they choose their grooms

Freely and willingly.

Insight:

Among the Builsa people of Northern Ghana, there is no official or customary ceremony to hand over a bride to her husband or husband's family. A man must be able to woo or lure his bride to his home by himself (with the support of his friends and kinsmen of course) before he returns to the home of his in-laws to perform the customary marriage rites. The wooing and taking of the bride home is usually done from the market on market days. This practice degenerated overtime into women capture. Some women were forcefully captured and taken to men that they hardly knew. And the practice slowly became a custom in its own right. Many of such captured women wept and cried bitterly (like my sister, who was once rescued). There has been many calls for its abolition and this poem is my own small contribution to such voices. Happily, the practice has waned significantly and may now only be heard about in isolated cases and in far off villages. There is still no customary ceremony for handing over brides though and we must still woo or lure them home somehow!