Elixabeth was a quiet industrious woman. She was my homestead sister, who I met when I moved from the teachers quarters at my school, out to a homestead to live with the Dlamini family. She was a traditional Swazi woman, with 3 kids, and was in her mid twenties. Somehow, in the short course of her adult life, she had been able to gather enough funds while raising her kids, to open a small shop, from which she sold bread, tinned pilchards, small sacks of mealie meal (finely ground white maize which was the staple of every homestead), and cigarettes, and sometimes candles, and occasionally Orange Squash, and bar soap.

The shop itself was a small dark hut, about the size of an American bathroom, and had a door to enter, some shelves, and a small window, through which she dispensed her wares. She would spend the day sitting on a chair inside, with her youngest baby who was still nursing, while her older children were at school, and sell her merchandise to the occasional neighbor who showed up at the window. It didn’t seem to be a wildly profitable enterprise, but provided enough income for her to buy the things that she and her kids needed.

On Saturdays, when I was home from teaching, I would sit under the shade of the Marula tree outside the door of her shop for an hour or two, and listen to the tales of her life, and tell her about my life back in America. It was there that she first told me that she had a boyfriend, Robert, who lived 4 1/2 hours away in the capital city of Mbabane, and who was a Minister of Parliament with the Swazi government. “One day,” she said, Robert would marry her.

One Saturday afternoon in April, as the summer heat was finally winding down into fall, and the days were getting cooler, I was sitting in my grass and mud hut where I spent my nights, and was talking to my titular father, Musa.

Musa was about 10 years younger than I, and was the oldest son of this branch of the Dlamini clan, and had been the one who invited me to get away from the school, and come and live with his family. Two of his younger brothers and their wives and children also lived on the homestead. There were 8 huts in the tiny clump that housed them all. He was a teacher at the Regional Education Center next to my school. We had become friends over the year and a half that I had been teaching Woodworking at the high school. He was a calm, quiet man, who ran his family without rancor or divisiveness. He assigned me “eldest son” status when I moved in. I was, in fact, older than everybody on the homestead, except for Grandmother, who was 45, only 5 years older than me.

Musa: Yes, Maseko, Robert has finally agreed to marry Elizabeth. There will be a lobola discussion in about an hour. I would like to invite you to attend, as my eldest son.

Me: Why thank you, Musa! I have always wanted to attend a lobola discussion. I have heard much about them from Grandmother Nzalo at school. We have nothing like them in Texas.

Gogo (grandmother) Nzalo ran the Regional Education Center next to my school. She was in charge of the preschool, and the Adult Education classes where Musa taught, as well as the outreach program that she had started. She wrote for grant money. She was a Fullbright scholar, had lived all over the world, and had gone to college in England. She was 65 years old. Even though she had been born in Swaziland, she had an outsider’s view of Swazis because of her travels, and was a fountain of information helping me understand the culture that I was living among.

We had talked about the lobola, the bride dowry that a man had to pay to his bride’s father when he married her. When I had objected to it being like selling a daughter, she was patient in helping me understand that a lobola was paid to thank the father for raising a good marriage-worthy daughter. It was a part of Swazi culture since before Shaka Zulu swept through the area with the Mfecane, a program of join my army or I will burn your village to the ground. The Swazi people had hidden in the caves in the middle of what is now Swaziland, escaping the attention of Shaka, and afterward had emerged and founded the Swazi nation.

In fact, dowry was also a way of spreading the wealth around. A man’s wealth was his cattle, and that was what was paid for the lobola… cows. The closer to the King that your branch of the family was, the more cows your daughters were worth. And, of course, if the daughter was college educated, or owned property or a business, she was able to command more cows. For her father, who, theoretically, had helped increase her value, by paying for college or giving her property.

The lobola discussion was to be done by the brothers or cousins, or best friends, of the groom. It was to arrive at a mutually acceptable number of cows, which would allow the marriage to proceed. The groom’s representatives would try to drive the number down, and the bride’s family would try to drive the number up. It was accomplished by the groom’s side trying to make out that the woman brought little to the table, and the bride’s side magnifying the bride’s qualities. The groom was not allowed to argue for himself, because why would he say negative things about the woman he wished to marry? It would be unseemly. He stayed home.

Musa: Yes, Maseko, (Musa always started a thought with “Yes, Maseko” when we were talking) I am thinking that Elizabeth should bring 10 cows for her lobola. She is a good woman and brings much to the table.

All of a sudden, there was a commotion outside, and I could hear my 3 teenage sisters, Glory, Thabsile, and Ncamsile shouting.

Glory: Father! Come quickly! There are thieves outside the homestead, and we must drive them away!

Thabsile: Yes, father, come! They are ugly, like beasts! We must not let them into the homestead!

Ncamsile: They don’t look very intelligent, and their clothes are like those of the poor people who live in the forest! They look like they have not eaten in weeks! Help Father!

I jumped to my feet, alarmed. Musa started chuckling.

Musa: Sit down, Maseko. And listen.

I heard some far off voices shouting.

Voices: No! We are not thieves! We are not beasts! We have come for… OW! Stop that! You will injure us!

Glory: Go away thieves! Or I will throw more stones at you!

Voices: Ow! Ow! Stop! Stop throwing stones! We have come to speak for Robert! Do not drive us away!

Thabsile: What would a scruffy bunch like you have to do with Robert? I will sick the dog on you!

Ncamsile: I will run to the store and call the police!

I could hear the girls giggling as they hid behind the edge of the hut while throwing stones. Musa was grinning.

One voice: Stop! We have come for the lobolla discussion! I am Robert’s brother, and these are his cousins. Let us come in!

Musa got to his feet, and went outside, with me right behind him. There were 3 young men out in the bush, hiding behind some Marula trees. They were, in fact, nicely dressed and did not look like thugs at all. Musa motioned them to come in, and we went to sit in a circle of chairs that had been set up earlier for the powwow. The 3 men were throwing angry glances at the girls. The girls were giggling and poking each other. Musa sat there waiting.

One man: I am Richard, Robert’s brother, and these are his cousins, Mfanawenkhosi and Andrew. We have come to discuss the matter of cows.

Glory: (not backing down) I hope you have plenty of cattle then, because I want 35 cows for my excellent sister Elizabeth!

I tried to keep my surprise from showing on my face. 35 cows?! That was what someone like the King’s actual sister or daughter would command. This branch of the Dlaminis was far far removed from the King. The men looked stunned. I chuckled quietly. Glory was bringing it right to them. I loved her so much at that moment.

Richard: Um… we have 6 cows to offer.

Glory leaped to her feet and ran over to the pile of stones that they had been throwing. She looked very angry. She picked up a stone, and drew back to throw it.

Glory: You come into our homestead and insult us like that? Father! Let us drive them back to where they came from!

Musa: Calm down, my daughter. Let us hear what they have to say. Come sit down. Yes, Richard, that seems a small amount of cows for the excellent daughter that I have raised. She is an excellent cook, and makes the best ligusha in this area. I could not accept less than 20 cows for her. Robert would be getting a bargain for 20 cows.

Richard: That is good that she cooks well. Robert likes to eat good food. And because he is a Minister of Parliament, you know that he can take good care of Elizabeth, and provide plenty of good food for her to cook. I could maybe give 7 cows.

Glory looked like she was about to jump up again and head for the stone pile. I put my hand on her arm to calm her down, and smiled at her. She winked at me. Ah, I was catching on.

Musa: Did you know that Elizabeth is a successful business owner? She has her own nice shop from which she is able to support herself. And the whole community comes to her shop for their needs. She will be bringing that with her when she marries Robert. I could come down to 18 cows because Robert is such a stable man, and will take good care of her.

Richard: That is very good of you. You know that Roberts homestead is nearer town, and has electric and running water. Elizabeth will live an easier life there, and there will be many patrons of her shop, so she will have a higher income. But she has three children which Robert will have to feed, and house, and pay for their education. I can offer 8 cows.

Musa: That is good, it is important for children to have a good education with plenty to eat. My grandchildren are very smart. They will like going to better schools. But Robert spends a lot of time in the Parliament, and will not be home as much as most men. Elizabeth will be lonely, and children need a firm fathers hand to guide them. I worry about that. I will accept 15 cows for her lobola.

Richard: I am sure that with such a beautiful woman as Elizabeth is, Robert will find that he wants to be home more often. She will not be lonely. In fact, with Elizabeth in his homestead, I am sure that Robert will be much happier with his life. But he will have to build a nice house for Elizabeth and the children, and houses are expensive. I think that 10 cows is as high as I can go.

I could see that Musa was ready to accept the deal, having gotten what he thought was a fair lobola for his daughter. Thus far, I had only listened to the conversation, and said nothing. Musa turned to me.

Musa: Before I decide, I would like to get advice from my elder son, Maseko. What do you think about this Maseko? Do you have something else to add?

Up to that point, I could see that the men were very curious about why a white man was sitting in on a lobola discussion. When Musa named me as his son, they were startled. I was proud. And I had learned some things about lobola from Gogo Nzalo that I wished to put into the discussion.

Me: Yes, father, I do have some things to add. Since two of Elizabeth’s children are from Robert, I think it only fair that he accepts responsibility for his own offspring. In fact, I think that the lobola should be 11 cows because of this. After all, Musa has been working hard so that Elizabeth, and Robert’s children, have had a safe and comfortable place to live, and plenty to eat.

The men were gobsmacked that I knew about Elizabeth’s children, and that I would ask for a cow for that reason. I was not out of line in saying so, and reluctantly, Richard agreed. 11 cows. He nodded.

Me: Oh, and one more thing, there must be a cow for Grandmother as well, just to honor her for raising this good family. That makes 12 cows.

Again the men looked at me stunned. Where did this white man come from? And the cow for the grandmother, which was a common part of some lobola discussions, or so Gogo Nzalo had told me, was not out of line either. It was usually the cow that they butchered for the wedding so that everybody could eat meat.

Richard: You drive a hard bargain Maseko. I will agree, but not one cow more.

And we all shook hands, and the men walked down the dirt road on the way back to their homes. I felt pretty good about myself. It pays to listen when someone from the culture is telling you what it is like. And honestly, my reasons for the extra cows were good. Richard didn’t really have a choice. He could not make Robert look cheap or unwilling to care for his own kids. And nobody dishonors the Grandmother. Ever. The girls all came and hugged me and laughed. I can’t imagine what story Richard would tell Robert.

That was one of the most fun things that I did while living on the homestead. The wedding was fun too, but a story in itself, which I will write next.

Always honor the grandmother