The Man with Beard and Knife

by Keith Lavit (United States of America)

Making a local connection Tanzania

My friend-of-a-friend had another friend who had just gotten engaged. No big deal except the party and I were both in Tanzania, the engaged couple were of the Maasai tribe, and I was invited. We arrived in the afternoon and pulled up in an old, beat up Toyota Corolla to the hillside village. If we were in Tuscany, the village would have been a citadel. But alas, the village here was just a series or round, thatched roof huts. The event tents were set up in between the huts and if it weren’t for the mudded, clay ground or the traditional Maasai dress donned by the women, it could have been something out of a Staten Island banquet hall. There were matching white linen table cloths and chair coverings, large neon floral centerpieces in fake crystal vases, and a giant heart shaped placard on the center stage that read, in pink and in English, “I Do!” As we walked to our seats in the center of the floor, I received many double takes from the other seated guests. The looks were not unfriendly, just of surprise. No one was expecting to see a foreigner here. We sat, we drank Fanta, and we waited in suspense as the bride’s and groom’s families negotiated the “bride price” inside the nearest hut. As the negotiations went on, I looked around at the bright, plaid cloth draped around the shoulders and waists of the women. Maasai men typically wear a similar garb, but today only the women were dressed as such. The women also donned white, beaded neck discs and headdresses. The men and women alike, however, had stretched out earlobes. In some cases, stretched out so far that they were tucked up around and behind the tops of their ears. One man in particular caught my eye. I’m not sure if it was the unruly, white beard that I had not seen on any man in my weeks in Tanzania. Or if it was his commanding charisma and don’t-give-a-damn smirk on his face. Or if it was the fact that he resembled my recently deceased brother. Or if it was the knife handle sticking out of his pant pocket. As he transitioned between jovially greeting family members and his seat up front amongst his wives, I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. After the family inside had reached their agreement on what the groom’s family would be paying the bride’s family, no doubt denominated in cattle, the women inside the house let out their high-pitched ululations, and we knew the party was on. Christian sermons were given, the bride and groom took globs of photos, and it was time to eat. A barbecue buffet was provided down the hill from the tents and a line quickly formed. I stood with my friends there, trying to discreetly pick caked mud off my sandals. I glanced up and as the family elder with beard and knife broke through the crowd in determined fashion and approached me, the party grew quiet and jaws seemingly dropped. From the collective response at his approach, I didn’t know what to expect. It turned out to be simply a smile laden with warm eyes, a firm, double-handed handshake, and a lightly-accented “I am very happy that you are here.” As with relief, the party laughed, broke out in a chatter, and reached for their cell phones to take photos of the unlikely couple. Our hands never let go, nor did the smiles drop from our faces. Photos were snapped in good humor and I was honored to have this man, who unofficially presided over the ceremonies, surprise the crowd, and myself, by reaching out to me. Perhaps it was actually being comfortable for once as the center of attention. Or maybe it was the man’s warm and genuine greeting. It may have been the fact that matching the rest of his appearance, his hands also felt like my brother’s hands, hands that I have longed to feel since his passing. Nevertheless, I had accepted the party invitation out of human interest, but I left the party with a feeling of accomplishment. I’m not sure why.