So I went to this wedding, right? My cousin pulls me aside like a politician whispering about a secret manifesto. He points to this lady he’s dating and says, ‘I want to marry her... but I’m still raising funds for her hand in marriage.’ She’s in his house washing, ironing and exterminating cockroaches — because nothing says ‘wife material’ like wielding Doom spray with conviction. She’s basically the Minister of Domestic Affairs without a portfolio. And at family gatherings, she’s there in full force, smiling at aunties, serving tea, and subtly reminding everyone: ‘Vote for me as the official wife.’ Her official slogan: ‘Marriage is coming soon.’ But soon in Botswana can mean anything from next year to the next millennium. So until then she remains the quintessential figure at every gathering: the unofficial wife, the domestic volunteer, the candidate running for the eternal office of Mrs. Somebody Someday. The unmarried wife is a national institution. She is introduced at weddings as ‘our sister in law’ even though no cows have crossed kraals. She is acknowledged at family meetings, but always with a footnote: ‘You know, she’s not yet married.’
The phrase ‘not yet’ is crucial. It suggests that marriage is a train that is delayed but surely coming. Unfortunately, in Botswana, that train often gets stuck at the station, waiting for the driver to finish his Castle Lite or a Black Label quart.
