In Zambia, a wedding is for the couple, but a Kitchen Party is a declaration of war. It is the day the bride's family proves they can out-cook, out-dance, and out-organize the groom's entire lineage.
And since Chileshe was marrying the "Copper King," her mother, Ba Mayo, had decided that the Banda family would not just declare war—they would achieve total nuclear dominance.
"Chileshe, don't move! The pins will prick you!" Auntie Petronella shouted, her mouth full of safety pins as she adjusted my heavy, gold-threaded *chitenge* outfit.
The tent in our backyard was a sea of orange and cream. We had moved the "event" from our small yard to a rented garden in Roma because the guest list had ballooned from fifty to five hundred. Half of Chelstone had managed to "claim" kinship to me in the last seventy-two hours.
"Auntie, I can't breathe," I gasped.
"Breath is for after the ceremony," she retorted. "Right now, you are a statue of the Banda family's dignity. Look at these fabrics! Mwansa really opened the vault."
Outside, the drums started. My heart began to thud in sync with the animal-hide rhythm. This was the moment. I had to be led out, covered in a veil, hidden from the world until the "Groom's Side" paid enough money to see my face.
It was a game. A beautiful, expensive game.
"The groom has arrived!" someone screamed.
Through the thick fabric of my veil, I saw the blurred shapes of a convoy. Mwansa hadn't just brought his family; he had brought a fleet of Range Rovers. He stepped out looking like he belonged on a billboard for a private bank, flanked by his "people"—men in suits who looked like they were checking their watches for the next board meeting.
He looked terrified.
He was surrounded immediately by the "Mother's Side" dancers. They swirled around him, dust rising from their feet, singing songs that questioned if he was man enough to provide for their daughter.
"Pay to let him sit!" Auntie Charity yelled.
Mwansa's best man—a nervous corporate lawyer—quickly stepped forward and dropped a thick envelope of cash into a basket.
"Pay for him to smile!"
Another envelope.
"Pay for him to breathe our air!"
I watched through the lace. Mwansa looked at the basket, then at the cheering, sweating, singing crowd. He looked like a man who had accidentally walked into a riot and realized the only way out was to fund it.
Finally, it was my turn. I was led out, a mysterious bundle of cloth, and seated on a throne of carved wood.
"Mwansa Tembo," my mother's voice boomed over the speakers. "You say you love this woman. But do you know her? Many women look like this from the back. Pick your wife."
The music stopped. The tension was real. If he picked the wrong woman (usually a cousin hidden under a similar veil), he'd have to pay a "fine" that would make the IMF weep.
Mwansa walked toward the line of three veiled women. He stopped in front of me. I held my breath. I smelled like the expensive perfume he had sent me, but I also smelled like the sweat of three hours of pinning.
He didn't look at the shoes. He didn't look at the height.
He leaned in close, his voice a whisper that only I could hear. "The perfume is French, Chileshe. but you still smell like the sarcastic comment you made this morning."
He reached out and lifted my veil.
The crowd erupted. The drums went into a frenzy.
As the veil fell back, our eyes met. For a split second, the "Contract" didn't exist. The "Copper King" wasn't looking at a PR asset, and the economics graduate wasn't looking at a paycheck. He looked relieved. Truly, deeply relieved to see a familiar face in the madness.
"You're late with the payments," I whispered as he sat beside me. "Auntie Petronella was about to hike the interest rate."
"I've spent more in the last hour than I did on my first mining equipment," he muttered back, though he was smiling for the cameras. "Is it over?"
"Over? Mwansa, we haven't even started the 'Counseling' segment yet."
His smile faltered. "Counseling?"
"Yes. My aunties are going to spend the next two hours telling you exactly how to handle me in the bedroom. In detail. In front of everyone."
Mwansa Tembo, the man who stared down international creditors, turned a very distinct shade of grey.
"Suddenly," he whispered, "poverty doesn't seem so bad."
I laughed, a genuine, loud laugh that the photographers captured and labeled 'True Love.' It was the perfect shot for the front page of the *Zambia Daily Mail*.
We were the perfect lie.
But as he reached under the table and awkwardly squeezed my hand—not for the cameras, but because he was genuinely overwhelmed—I felt a tiny, dangerous shift in my own internal economy.
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