Nomsa's nuptials (3/5)

By Drum Digital
27 August 2014

My model sister’s elaborate lies finally caught up with her – on her wedding day.

“We can’t miss Nomsa’s wedding,” mother said. “She’s our only daughter and we must be there.” My father tried to talk my mother out of going. “If she wanted us to be there, she would have invited us,” he argued.

“She’s ashamed of us because we’re poor. Let’s leave her and see how long she can stand on her own two feet.” But Ma didn’t give in. Finally, after she’d nagged and nagged, he agreed to go to the wedding. We spent the next week fixing my father’s 1974 Datsun 120Y that hadn’t been used in five years.

When the old car eventually came to life, it coughed and spluttered black smoke from its rusty exhaust. Our transport was ready. The village was four hours from the big city, so on the day of the wedding we were up at 3 am. My parents had found out from city friends where the wedding was being held. My father put on his favourite outfit.

Apart from the two patches on the seat of his trousers he looked quite smart for someone who spent most of his time in old overalls doing odd jobs around the home. Mother wore her smart, traditional dress.

For wedding presents Ma chose five of the biggest chickens and father took a young goat to present to his new son-in-law. We headed for the city – Ma, Pa, five clucking chickens and a goat on my lap.

The old car surprised us all by not breaking down once the whole way. By 8 am we were crawling between skyscrapers alongside impatient city dwellers. Pa knew his way around the city and soon we’d reached the wedding venue. I could smell money; luxury cars were parked everywhere.

To be continued...

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