Cattles and Wives

Over the course of a trip to Kenya, it came about that I wasn’t only there to crisp my pallid complexion or ooh and ah appreciatively over animals whose names and forms I wasn’t familiar with. It turned out that all along I had been wearing a For Sale sign.

Being female, nubile and whiter than I would like to admit became my own personal advertisement that simply begged the locals to make extravagant offers to the family patriarch. Our first day in the country decidedly lay out the course of the next few weeks for me; one bold shopkeep took it upon himself to bid the entirety of the Masai Mara, animals included. Thankfully, despite his affinity for the bush and the potential for a prime piece of property, my dad declined.

Several days afterwards, a discussion with two younger Masai warriors brought about the question of the going rate for your average wife and I discovered that not only is the concept of a “free” wife baffling to them, but that a man would need to be at least ten cattle rich to even think of asking a girl from her father’s care (further confirmation that I am worth a hell of a lot more than one steak dinner). The conversation finally ended with a declarative offering of fifty cattle for my hand in marriage, much to the delight of my younger, growing and protein voracious brother. Needless to say, my dad spent most of the vacation giggling.

Eventually, Dad even took it upon himself to offer me to the locals we happened to engage in conversation. A particular group of the Masai tribe acting public relations several kilometres and tens of species later ended up, much to their misfortune, conversing with my rather spirited family. After a thorough discussion of Dad’s appreciation of the local birdlife, he began animated, and Tusker beer enthusiastic, gesticulation in my direction while seeking out a proposal in exchange for my hand in marraige. Unfortunately for my pride, partway through some light-hearted negotiations, my mother let slip that I was incapable of cattle milking. My brideprice instantly dropped to the entirety of one chicken. Brilliant.

To this day, my parents claim that our tour through Kenya was not intended as one to settle me with a paying husband; all proposals were, apparently, spontaneous. Whether or not I can believe my parent’s denial that this was premeditated is still up for debate, however. They must be holding out for a better deal with an oil-rich Arab; why else would they have put up with my shit for this long?