PETER’S DOUBTS ON WEDDING DAY

Peter Mukomere blinked, then swayed his tall frame and looked down to meet the piercing eyes of the Priest. The two men gazed at each other for a while, and thinking it strange, Peter swiftly looked away, defeat drawn all over his wet eyes for all who could read him. Was he making a mistake? He thought briefly as the ululating crowd quieted, their fickle sights and thoughts occupying the podium. They had come this far, and it was cruel if anything went wrong. These sentiments were shared by most of the attendees, but for the front corner, just before the podium, where Jepha Mukomero, sitting side by side with his wife, smiled half-heartedly. Was his son coming to his senses at last? Jepha’s devious smile quickly faded, replaced by a sombre, stretched face, like a wise man who rarely counts his chicks before they hatch. The memory of his talk with his son a few weeks ago came into his mind. They had sat in the grass thatched shedding that both son and father were so fond of as they waited for the woman of the house to bring them tea.

“Have you thought deeply about where she comes from?” Jepha had asked and awaited patiently for his son’s reply. He had always been a reasonable man and knew when to be patient and when not to be. But his son remained aloof, seemingly uncomfortable with the oncoming discussion. Jepha took the silence to spew some sense into his son’s head.

“You remember your Uncle Shimeli, who passed on three years ago. He, too, made the same mistake, and you know how it all ended. Have you ever even seen your cousin since he passed? Does anyone but us remember your uncle? Does…”

“Daddy, please!” Peter cut him short, stupefying him in the process. In all the thirty years he had been with him, never had he heard Peter raising his voice against him. Then, the son had stretched, a move to calm his nerves. He, too, seemingly was surprised at his outburst.

“Daddy, don’t generalize things.”

“I am not. I have even used your late uncle as a specific example.”

The two men then stared at each other squarely. As if daring each other. Then, in what seemed forever, Peter lowered his eyes.

“I’ll marry her father!” He had said in a low voice that carried with it a finality.

“Son!” The Priest’s voice brought Jepha back to the wedding. The crowd was by now baffled. What was happening? The hearts of many sympathized with the bride, a beautiful woman. Standing at five feet seven, Monica Njeri was endowed with all that a man may want to have in a woman. Not all in the crowd could see it, but they had all heard tales of how she possessed a smile that bewitched men and a kind-hearted face and voice that would serve as the last nail into their coffins.

“Will you take Monica Njeri to be your beloved wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse…”

“A moment Father!” The calm but firm voice of Peter cut off the Priest. 

The crowd went silent. No one had expected it. Hid in the dressing gowns, a tear dropped down on Monica’s left cheek. She had loved this man resolutely. Yes, they disagreed on many things, including whether to buy an apartment in the city or to build a bungalow in the countryside, with Peter enforcing the latter, but the love was wholehearted. Then, there was the pregnancy. Had it come to this? To be embarrassed like this in front of all her family members and friends. Had she pushed things too hard?

Sweat broke down Peter’s forehead, and he fetched a handkerchief from his right trouser pocket, then wiped the sweat as he stared into the crowd. They all looked dumbfounded. For a while, he was surprised at his actions. Then, slowly, his mind flew back to the conversation with his father. That evening, their conversation almost cut deep into his head. He had thought of Monica, a beautiful, kind woman of whom anyone would be proud. But in his head, Monica was not right for him. So when his father introduced the topic, the path to his marriage was suddenly thrown at a crossroads. To some point, he had wanted to break down to his father and tell him everything. He wanted to say that he was not sure of his love for Monica but was enchanted by her beauty. Then there was the pregnancy concern; it was the second time now, and he feared Monica would be devastated if she undertook another abortion. She was a wife to the people: the beauty, the socialism, the charisma, but all in social appearances. When dusk came forth, and they remained alone, he felt like a stranger to her. They did not make meaningful conversations and were not by each other’s side in bad times. So what was the Priest talking about?

“Son, are you alright?” The Priest’s words jolted Peter’s mind into the presence. He seemed startled, then looked ahead at his beautiful bride. Sympathy swept across his whole being. He could not do this to her. Clearing his throat, he looked at the crowd again, which had since gone from silence to murmuring shimmers.

“Can you repeat, Father?” Peter asked.

The Priest took his time, observing him for a while. Then, he stepped toward the will-be couple and cleared his throat, silencing the crowd with his actions. Then, with an authoritative voice, he went about his business.

“Peter Mukomere, will you take Monica Njeri to be your beloved wife, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do you part?”

“Yes, I do,” Peter answered.

In the crowd, Jepha Mukomere swallowed heavily. He had been holding everything: his breath, his heart, and even, as it seemed, his saliva. As if noticing the discomfort in his man, his wife stretched her arm and caressed his right hip. She said nothing. But Jepha almost heard her saying, ‘Do not worry, he will be alright.’