Lobola. It’s so last century. Here’s my understanding of how it worked. So, I’m getting married, but I don’t know it yet. I’m actually the last person to know. Hubby-to-be has to tell the folks first that he’s spotted a fine young woman that he intends marrying.
Still I’m not informed. His parents will spread the word to the rest of his family. Little caucus meetings will take place: “Let’s see how little we can get her for. Start very low, but don’t go over two cows,” say the family, as they formulate their bidding strategy.
Eventually, my parents are notified of Sizwe’s intentions to marry me. A date is set for the auction: we accept there’s only one bidder; we’ll take the highest bid.
To prepare, my parents alert other members of my family, and they also discuss what they think this daughter is worth. The bidding begins and ends and I’m sold for a measly five cows — and I thought I was priceless.
At least that was back in 19-voetsek, but little has changed.
Did you know that back then my first salary as a worker would go to my uncle? My first cheque would be his to do with as he pleased: if he liked he could take all of it and not give me a cent. And I’d have to accept that and respect it.
It’s a good thing for my uncle that things have changed: my blood boils at the thought of what I’d do to him if he would dare to leave me broke for the rest of the month — and that on the occasion of my first pay cheque, nogal.
What of my shopping sprees, or of my nights out of heavy drinking? I forget; girls didn’t behave so inappropriately then.
Back then various members of my family were the ones who decided my worth — they sold me. But what happened to the money that had been paid to them? My uncle, once again, would be the one at the receiving end. If he so chose, this man could take all of the money and keep it himself. Not even my parents could contest it — their daughter could be sold and they would have nothing to show for it.
Served them right: how dare they sell me for a measly five cows.
I would slave for my husband and his family — I would be at their beck and call, doing what ever it was that they required of me. I would work my ass off and get nothing in return apart from shelter and food.
My mother-in-law would probably just sit and order me around to do her chores. I’d be her makoti — her slave.
Not a peep from me, or else she’d go running to her son, accusing me of all kinds of things. He’d have to teach his little bride a lesson, make sure she never spoke to his mama like that again — a sjambok would do …
I couldn’t run back home — they would send me back: after all, I was sold.
His uncles would be the worst problem I’d have to deal with. When Sizwe was gone they would have their way with me every night till his return.
If I told Sizwe, he’d probably reintroduce me to Mr Iron or Mr Fist or Mr I-leave-no-marks-but-you’ll-feel-the-pain-for-disrespecting-the-elders.
Yes, lobola might have worked back in 19-voetsek although I don’t see how — it’s so one-sided, it definitely worked for the man.
As for me, a 21st-century gal: I work, I have my own money, I have my own car and I can afford my own house. I will hire and pay for a nanny who will look after the kids. I will hire a domestic who will look after my house and the hubby. If anything, I should pay lobola for him.
Why do we stay attached to a tradition that has no value today?
I’ve been told the purpose of lobola today is to build relations with in-laws. Are these people trying to tell me that the only way my family and my husband’s family can “bond” is through money? More specifically, that my husband purchases me from my family? What if the poor guy is a mere peasant, without a penny to
his name?
Is he then not good enough to be my husband? And what if I pay for my own lobola? Is that unacceptable, will we have to keep it a secret?
Surely the time has come for us Africans to declare this tradition null and void, we’ve clearly outgrown it.