Attending Lobola

Experiencing my first dowry exchange ceremony in Eswatini.. and all the messy details in between.

In Eswatini, a dowry exchange or lobola is required for marriage. The price? Cows. Two weeks ago, I was lucky enough to attend my old host sister's lobola ceremony. The exchange of the bride price is much more than a gift of capital. In modern times, it's becoming more common to exchange the value of cows over the actual cow. But historically, the exchange of live cows has a spiritual connotation in many South African cultures. Lobola represents a union between families. It's a promise of connection rather than a debt paid.

Without further ado, here's my reflection on the events of the celebration.

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The Journey to Site

Leaving my site was remarkably easy with students being out of school. Usually, four or five overflowing khombis will pass me before one has enough standing-room for me to squeeze my way in. I quickly caught a ride into the capital, then rode down to the southernmost shopping town of Nhlangano. It was getting dark, so I was happy to find my final connecting khombi waiting at the bus rank, half-full. The stesh—drop-off station—was near the end of the trip, so I packed myself into the back seat of the khombi, squished in a row of four people—a woman, a child, his father, then me.

I still recognized the khombi driver—a comfort, as I was grabbing for straws of normalcy in my return to site. When I left the community last October, it was a far from normal departure. I had little time to say goodbye to my family and skipped my adieu to the school staff and community counterparts. Any sense of positive reception upon my return put me at ease, with the sound of people excitedly whispering “Futhi!” (my old name) when they caught sight of me.

Unfortunately, my initial happy recognition of the driver turned to dread. While he was always kind and welcoming to me, this particular driver was notorious for 1. his temper and 2. driving like he was dead-set on winning Mark Kart and could simply re-spawn if the vehicle flipped.

Last time I visited, this man flew over the potholes only to slam on the brakes and jump out of the khombi without explanation. The full-vehicle of passengers watched as he shoveled a very alive venomous snake into a thin plastic bag with his bare hands and the help of some twig he found on the roadside.

If you're thinking “What the fuck?” Yeah, me too. In traditional Swazi fashion, we laughed at his antics, covering our smiles with our hands, tucking our faces into our shoulders. Any outward display of confusion or criticism could set the driver off. That understanding made me laugh harder. One thing I love here: Swazis know how to laugh. Everything that had once sent me into a panic was met with deep, cackling medicine.

This time, there was no snake on the roadside, though. No. Part of me wished there had been. Instead, this man spun out of Nhlangano like a bat out of hell, cutting the hour-long drive down by half.

Unfortunately, that half-hour ride felt like an eternity, as the bumps in the road had me slamming my head against the vehicle’s metal frame while the child in the back row vomited beside me.

Food poisoning? Flu? Motion-sickness? No idea. His father, bless his heart, pulled an article of clothing out of his bag and helped his son hold it over his mouth, but it was not catching everything. Windows down, zooming through the rollercoaster of red dirt roads with proximal puke particles flying around a khombi? A hell of an entrance back to my old site. But I made it.

The sun was minutes from slumbering, and I tumbled out of the khombi, practically throwing the money at the driver in my need to touch grass. I grimaced through my goodbyes, mentally checking in on the brain-cells that were whacked into my ears during the bumps and bangs of the journey.

It was dark as I entered through the gate.

“Futhi?” A call came out from behind a giant rent-a-freezer on the lawn. Well, that's new, I thought. I didn't have time to respond before a body came barreling at me for a hug.

I was home.

The space had changed much since I left there in late October. Others had arrived as early as Wednesday to ready to house for visitors and prep the food. My Make—host mother—had called me earlier in the week, asking if I wanted to come early.

“Yebo! Ngitofika ngalesihlanu!” (Yes! I'll come Friday).

I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

A tent took up the lower part of the yard, where I once fetched water and hung my laundry. The brambles, discarded wire fencing, and various native plants had been removed, now covered by two thin concrete paths for tires to follow down the property. At the end of the paths, they had set up a giant blue and white tent, plastic chairs borrowed from the Mission school, and a couch with “Mandla & Gcebile Lobola Celebration” scripted on a wooden board behind it.

Women milled around the dimly lit lawn, preparing food for the following day and raking the grass free of litter that had blown from the trash pit.

“Come Futhi, I'll introduce you to everyone,” my niece said, tugging on the hand that she hadn't released since the first hug of greeting.

This was the first time I had met this niece in person. Running toward me for an embrace in the darkness, she had already irreversibly carved herself into my life. Just from that brief introduction. Collectivism, so different from my American upbringing, had power here. People are quickly welcomed into your life as soon as they're labeled as family, and your support system grows.

We spent the night wandering circles around the property. Women were hidden behind every corner—sweeping, cutting vegetables, making mahewu, and constructing chairs and tables for my Make's newly renovated house.

The building had made vast progress since my last visit three months ago. The land had been my Make's dream. For over six years, she had been pouring every extra cent into constructing rooms for her sons, her daughters, a well-outfitted kitchen, and multiple bathrooms that would, one day, have running water.

The freshly polished marble floors and white walls are a blank slate. Only those with knowledge of the family history could make out the invisible ink that sang stories of the daughter who had passed from heart failure just a year prior—the same daughter they named me after when I took the name as Ntombefuthi, meaning “girl again.” Her room was the first one finished, decorated, and kept immaculate.

Carved in the wood of newly outfitted doors were the tales of investments made, only to be stolen by someone who fled to South Africa, and the years of working for a class action lawsuit to get the money back. Money that was saved for the purpose of this home. The bland walls held hopeful sanctuary for where pictures would soon hang of family members passed—Make's husband that she speaks of nearly every day and his brothers and sisters too-early deaths, passing from more stories of heart failures and lack of access to insulin.

Every room, of which there were many, held a bed and more space for a floor mat to host guests and family members. Apart from the family that shared my Make's last name, the woman had welcomed others, adopting them by taking on their school fees and footing the bills of their upbringing. Orphaned children and students that my mother promised to take in, as long as they continued passing their classes, spent years on this property. During which time, they’d be stuffed with the bread she'd slathered in love and mayo or homegrown cabbage and carrots. As soon as I set foot on that homestead for the first time, I became one of the lost children she housed. Always welcome with a bed to spare.

Walking around the home that she spoke the world of, seeing her imagination solidify, I was hit with longing and guilt. I wish I could have been there for it all—every new addition to the house. The guilt of leaving never went away when she openly asked me to visit in every free moment. I often wished I could.

When the house was swept and enough food was prepped to be satisfactory—because we could never actually finish cooking and cleaning—the women headed to bed. The men, well, after a team of 10 of them slaughtered the pig—poor Porkalina, my old friend—they sat around the fire until the women called it quits.

“Futhi, my daughter! Did you eat?” I nodded emphatically. Any hesitation and I would be sent to bed with a plate of bhatata. “Then you must sleep!” Make ordered, still running around with her chore list in her brain. “You traveled too far today.”

My old site and new site were at opposite ends of the country, and I was still recovering from my bumpity, puke-filled adventure. But it was hard to call it quits around so much movement. I understand that I was a guest, but the part of me that still staked a claim on this home made me one of the hosts. I didn’t want to rest until my Make and the kids wound down.

Eventually, Make’s arguments won out. They always would, and I hunted down a cup of water to wash my face and brush my teeth before bed.

We had a long day ahead of us.

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Saturday Lobola Celebration

Since arriving in Eswatini, my body has learned to synchronize with the sun. I wake with it and feel the wave of exhaustion as soon as it slips away. Unfortunately, that hadn't helped me because the women were up long before the sun, if they had slept at all.

My family was on the receiving end of the Lobola ceremony—the bride's family gaining the cows for her hand in marriage. So, the hard work of hospitality fell to us. We started cooking at 5:00 am to make our rounds with breakfast from 7:00 am until about 10:00 am. New faces filtered in with plates to fill and plates to clean. The families were separated on the homestead until the ceremony was to officially start at noon. On Swazi time, that was about 3 or 4 pm.

Frankly, it would be culturally inappropriate for me to pinpoint a “start” time.

I ate a full breakfast of oats and instant coffee while we prepared russians (hotdogs, my American friends), scrambled eggs, and buttered toast (see: unheated bread with margarine).

My task, as Anti Futhi and everyone's favorite child-whisperer, was to serve the kids oats in between chopping vegetables. To be honest, I think they gave me the task because it was nearly impossible to mess up.

Once the oats were laid out, I scooped about 3 tablespoons of cane sugar on top and poured full-cream milk into it until it looked like a sweet breakfast soup. There was a time in my life when this would seem abhorrent—the phases over the years when I had cut out dairy, carbs, and most of all, sugar. It’s a freer life now.

Next, when I asked for work, they gave me the most glorious job of all: chopping three dozen onions. Let me tell you, I was sobbing by the end of it. One of the bomake asked me if I wanted to switch tasks at one point (when I was almost finished, mind you) and chop the frozen chicken.

I used my horrid language skills to explain that I had no idea how to do that. I was too weak to cut through a frozen chicken with a dull knife, and I shamefully still bought chicken breast from the grocery store instead of buying a full home-grown chicken from my neighbors. I had beheaded a chicken once (Yeah, I know!), but hadn't prepared it afterward.

I don't know if my Siswati was actually that bad or if she couldn’t comprehend my not knowing how to do such a ‘simple’ task. So, I continued to chop the onions with closed eyes, hoping not to amputate myself with the dull knife.

I hopped from task to task throughout the day, fueled on oats and a single cup of coffee. I was so caught up in the preparations that I forgot to eat the rest of the meals. Truthfully, I felt guilty sitting down and eating when other women were working nonstop, without complaint.

After I had dried my onioned eyes and run far away from the frozen chicken bodies, guests began arriving. Before the families could be mingled, I was ushered into the house to grab a blanket and throw it over my head. With all the movement and quick Siswati around me, I didn't quite understand what was happening.

So, I called myself a sheep and allowed myself to be herded.

Three of us had blankets over our heads. My sisi, our cousin, and I—the Makoti—were led to the men, and the groom had to pick out which one of us was his bride. I’m sure my towering height and white skin didn’t give me away at all. If he had gotten it wrong and picked the wrong woman (spoiler: he didn’t!), he would have had to pay an extra cow for not knowing.

For lobola, the families meet beforehand to decide on the bride price—a certain number of cows. Ten is the base number for Eswatini, with more being offered based on social/financial status, beauty, and virginity. Once the families agree on a bride price, they bring in the cows. This goes in line with the cultural practice of fining by cow. If a man is found to have taken a woman's virginity before marriage and/or impregnated her, he is charged a cow or two for their actions. Families may also be fined cows or the value of a cow for certain civil indiscretions.

Somewhere between trying to find water to bathe and take “content” of the lobola—another job I couldn't possibly mess up and might actually be good at—the men herded the cows down the street and to the kraal.

Two of the cows had triangles of wood tied around their heads. One cow was called the insulamnyembeti, which literally means “to wipe away tears.” This cow is presented to the bride’s mother as a thank you for her daughter’s upbringing, and a tissue to wipe away the grief of losing her daughter to the husband’s family.

The second marked cow was inhlabisabayeni. By the end of Saturday night, that cow would be slaughtered and eaten through the rest of the three-day ceremony.

After the cows were closed into the kraal, the families checked over the dowry together, making sure the cows were of good quality and health. Meanwhile, the rest of the attendees shuffled down the tent to listen to the choir that had arrived, dressed in garments with the Swazi flag. With them, women in Zulu emahiya waited for their turn to dance. That was the first clear sign of cross-cultural exchange I noticed, as my sister is a Swazi, partnered with a Zulu man.

Everyone met down at the tent down the hill, minus the gaggle of women who never stopped prepping the food. My sisi and her husband sat on a couch in front of the tent’s audience, wearing a white bridal corset and a skirt with the Swazi flag. Over her lap, representing the slaughtering of one of the cows, laid a studded cow-skin blanket. Beside her, he husband wore a patchwork of clothes representative of Zulu culture, and a baboon-skin hat.

My mother sat in the crowd with a heavy blanket around her, even in the burning afternoon. This is called the izibizo—a supplemental gift given to the bride’s mother in gratitude. The mother of the bride wears the izibizo during the ceremony to show gratitude and acknowledge that the dowry has been paid.

When everyone was seated and the choir had finished their warm-up beneath the tent, speeches began. All of them were given in Siswati or Zulu, so excuse me for the parts that I surely missed. From what I could understand, this part of the ceremony resembled a rehearsal dinner or wedding speeches with stories of love, hope, and gratitude that God had brought this couple and both families together. There was even a part when one of the speakers—he may have been a pastor? Everyone who spoke was extremely religious, it was hard to tell—opened the floor for anyone who wanted to protest the union, to please stand up and state their case. Luckily, the crowd was silent. No Swifty Speak Now moments here. Finally, speeches wrapped up with performances of song and dance, and it was time to eat, thank gods.

I was already back up at the preparation table by the time the crowds queued for food, putting the final touches on the dishes with the bomake. People lined up with their plates, and we passed out the next round of food. Dishes were washed simultaneously so we could begin dinner preparations. This felt like being back in the restaurant industry with no clock-out time. I was on a shift lasting the entire duration of the lobola with no gap or break between serving, eating, and preparing again.

Not because it was forced or even expected of me, but because it was simply the thing to do—help out and blend in with the duties of the women around me.

When I was finally able to get away from the prep and greetings long enough to grab my plate of food, I ran into my old community counterpart—the person appointed to me to integrate into the community and translate my various homestead visits. We chatted over our meals about everything that had happened in the three months since my last visit, and our conversation felt like the last missing piece of my welcome back home. That’s what this community always would be—home. Regardless of distance and time, the stories of my time there had become a part of me. In every return, more side-quests and tales would pile onto this heavy chapter in my life.

The sun was dropping before we knew it. Three or four bomake worked on dinner, mixing the massive cauldrons of pap and beef stew over the fire. After so many jumbled introductions throughout the day and processing hundreds of commands given in Siswati, my social battery was dead. And the idea of fending off the old man that kept calling me “sooo cute” and asking me to marry him because he was "a kind, peaceful, lonely man” was not the cup of tea I was craving. So, knowing I couldn’t acceptably go back into my room for another few hours, I went to find the dogs.

Seven puppies were born in late December, puppies I begged my bhuti to get and allow me to name, even before they were an expected arrival. My bhuti—host brother—had kept three, and we had a bit going about naming the dogs.

“Futhi, you’ll ruin my dogs. You’ll name them Fluffy or Cuddles, and make them lazy by petting them.”

“No, I want to name one of them Pancake, and they won’t be lazy because I'll train them to run with me.”

“That's so so much worse. No, you are not naming my dogs. Unless it’s Ripper, or Killer, or Brute.”

“I could handle one 'Ripper', as long as that one,” I gestured to the tan one that was a little more of a fighter than the rest, and liked to curl up in my lap, “is Pancake. Deal? Deal. Okay, glad you agree.”

Sometimes, our comedy routine would drag on. Other times, Bhuti would walk away, shaking his head and mumbling under his breath.

My bhuti was right, though, I would make them soft. Dogs here? They live very different lives. They’re tools, not friends. The idea of bringing them inside is laughable. The only animals occupying indoor spaces were cats, though Make despises them. Cats hunt the mice and rats that make their way past the threshold, and dogs patrol the fences of the homestead.

I once told my students at school that my dogs used to sleep in the bed with me. They couldn’t believe me and were utterly appalled at the ideas.

"In bed?"

"They will give you bugs.”

“Not with the right medicine,” I argued

“And what do they eat?”

“We buy dog food from the store. It’s usually a mix of rice, chicken, and dried vegetables. Sometimes, people feed them leftovers from the table.”

I knew my mistake as soon as the words left my mouth. Students are provided with rice and beans at school. No meat, unless it was graduation.

“Hawuuu!"

“Ayebo! The American dogs eat better than us!” Damn.

That wasn’t strictly true, because the two adult dogs (I have no idea where the second one came from, but it was. Stay-welcome homestead), and three puppies at the homestead ate good. All the uneaten homegrown vegetables, pap, oats, and makhaya chicken went to the dogs and the pig at the homestead. That weekend, the scraps from a hundred or so people littered gifts for the dogs.

One of the women pointed me to the designated bone-pile, where the dogs had staked their claim. Sitting in the dark corner with the dogs became my new sanctuary. No need to chat, translate, or plaster a smile. I could just sit in the dirt with my white dress and be chomped and climbed on by puppies.

In terms of ‘integration,’ this was not my greatest move. But I argued that one of my objectives here are Peace Corps is “cultural exchange,” and hiding in corners with dogs is a display of U.S. culture. I was in this same scenario at entirely too many college parties.

As people wandered past my dog sanctuary, they often asked, “Futhi! Wenta ini?!” (Futhi, what are you doing?) and offered to get me a chair or asked why I wasn’t worried about the ticks of fleas I was undoubtedly getting from my furry friends. Eventually, they relented enough to just say “Oh, you love dogs,” when they passed because they couldn’t not comment on what I was doing.

When it was an acceptable time to slip off to bed, I made a run for it. On my way to the house, I asked my family about what was expected the next day, but no one could give me a clear answer.

“I don’t know, sisi.”

“But there are more people coming kusasa, right?”

“Yebo. Many, many people.”

“But there aren’t any events? Anything specific that will happen?”

“Hmm, shem. I don’t know, sisi.”

Laughing at the unknown something, I reminded myself of my cohort’s mantra: Be a sheep. Just be a sheep, Futhi. Let yourself be herded and go with the flow.

“Okay. Ulale kahle,” I said in farewell. Sleep came easily that night. Not thoughts keeping me up, anticipating the next day’s tasks and expectations. All I needed to do was rest. That would be a strong enough tool to get me through whatever the next day held.

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A Sunday I'll never forget.

More cooking. So much more cooking. We woke up a little later on Sunday morning, sleeping in until 6 am. One of the girls whom I had quickly designated as my translator and manager over the past few days grabbed me to help prepare breakfast. The families were coming over, and we had to make sure they were well attended to. The celebration was about connecting and welcoming the union of the family, after all. Breakfast rolled out at around 9:00 am due to our late start. This time, there was no separation in serving from what I could tell. At one point, I was shelling out oats to the kids and scrambling the eggs. Next thing I knew, meat was being braaied for lunch…and dinner. Linner?

My brain was absolute mush on Sunday. By noon, I had gone over 24 hours without drinking water and had prepared so much food, but too often forgotten to eat. With the flurry of movement around me, I found it difficult to sit still.

“Give me a job,” was the phrase of the day. The only meal I was able to squeeze in was oats with milk in the morning, and after accidentally skipping dinner the previous night, I loaded up on the oats.

The problem with this? They had run out of oats that morning and added flour into the pot for more substance. Surprise! As someone with a gluten allergy, this altered the trajectory of my day completely.

With two different break stations pumping out meat, my Bhuti grabbed me to help pass out the meat. It was another task they assumed I couldn’t fail at, walking around and offering sausages and bite-sized meats to the masses.

“Futhi! Over here!"

“Futhi! Are you bringing more sausage?”

“Futhi, come back with more vos!”

Zig zagging between groups of people huddled in circles and all of them wanting meat, I was quickly sweating on my way from the braai grill to the ladies down the hill, to the men behind the house drinking mahewu.

And that’s when it all hit.

The house had two pit latrines, situated beside each other on the far side of the property. One latrine was a concrete structure that my family went in, and the other was what we volunteers liked to call the “silver bullet” or more appropriately “the tin can.” When I lived at the homestead, that was my designated toilet—a tiny metal space shit ship of a bathroom with hardly enough room to sit in without hitting my knees on the door that liked to swing open at will. What spiced it up even more was that if the door swung open, it would flash the entire crowd of people who had come to the homestead to celebrate this sacred union of families.

The pit latrines also happened to be between the braai stations where dozens of men circled around the entrances. So, I ran laps between the braai stations, the crowd of family members, and the pit latrine. Then I tried to hunt down clean water to wash my hands between rotations, which is not nearly as simple as it sounds.

And repeat. And repeat. And repeat.

It wasn’t exactly easy for me to blend in and sneak anywhere. Not with my height, my blonde hair, or my light skin. The men noticed me making frequent little trips to the latrine, laughing and commenting in Siswati to my eternal horror. With the braai meat still pumping out and my inability to keep up, my Bhuti had to come and fire me from my job. Lovely.

TLDR: I was in hell but forced to smile and serve through the fires.

Horrendously embarrassed, I went to hide with the dogs again, only to be caught by my niece and nephews.

Back when I stayed with the family, I carved out an hour or two every night to spend with the kids. It started as us watching old reruns of soccer games on television, back when Renaldo was in his prime. My nephew, Sibe, loves Renaldo.

One day, my family stopped paying for the soccer channel on cable. He quickly found a channel that showed a commercial of soccer highlights on the breaks. It didn’t matter what show was airing. He didn’t care. It was about the flashes of Renaldo in that 20-second commercial. He lived for it, and shushed me every time I tried to talk over the clip, like the dialogue would somehow change the thousandth time.

Tired of being shushed, I found some new activities to share with the kids: Skip-bo, "California Cards", and drawing lessons. Skip-bo was a hard sell at first. It’s a card game by the same creators of UNO with an odd set of rules for a game that is based more on luck than strategy.

My California cards were the kids’ first obsession. In my eyes, they were a fancy deck of standard cards. Rather than the flimsy cardboard boxes of standard cards, these cards had been with me for 3 years, stored in a wooden box with a cartoon bear holding the shape of California in its hands. I had bought the cards for an obscene price once when I was bartending, spending a whopping $32—I shit you not—at the Santa Barbara tourist trap next door when it was too rainy for any patrons to come to the bar. At this point, the return investment made the purchase well worth it, especially now that it had crossed the ocean with me.

Crazy 8’s and Skip-Bo became our nightly routine. One day, I brought home markers and a giant box of crayons to add to the mix. Before my data bundle shut off at 8 pm, we would squeeze in a YouTube tutorial on How To Draw ____ For Kids. Sibe, the oldest of the three kids, would always make the call to draw another soccer player. Neymar Jr., Renaldo, Mbappé. It didn’t matter that all the drawings were basically the same, with a different number on the jersey.

“Wouldn't you rather draw something new? An animal? An Astronaut?”

“I want Renaldo.”

“We did Renaldo last night. Wouldn’t you rather—“

“Let’s do another Renaldo.”

Eish. I relented at first, only to have them crumple their papers in half when their drawing wasn’t in the center of the paper, or if the line they made wasn’t straight enough. This forced me to add a new rule to our Cards & Cartoon nights. My next adaptation was to proactively choose their drawing videos to shorten our arguments. As the youngest sibling, this type of boundary setting had never been necessary in my life. I learned how to step into a new role as Anti, while my blood-related niece and nephew grew up across the Atlantic.

“It looks beautiful!” I’d say.

“Does mine?” My niece yearned for affirmation.

“Yes! I love what you did with the eyes! Your drawings get better every day. But we’re going to make a new rule. Whenever we draw or play games, we’re not allowed to say bad things about our drawing, or I stop the video.”

This translated to the card games too. No more complaining when we didn’t get the card we wanted, nor could we give up when we felt too far behind. To my surprise, those structures and routines set in the two months I stayed with them hadn’t changed in the six months I had been gone.

“Anti Futhi, can we play cards now?”

Eish. I was tired, but I knew any time spent with them would be worth it. The need to filter myself and mold into a different person disappeared when I was with the kids. They accepted me and paid keen attention to every word I said or emotions I revealed. I knew my niece, Sihle idolized me, trying to grab every syllable that fell from my mouth, absorbing more English.

After four rounds of Skip-Bo and another three rounds of crazy eights with the kids and their two neighbors, I had to call it quits. I made a few mistakes myself, complaining about getting a bad hand, only to be corrected by Sihle.

“Uh uh! Anti Futhi, remember? Say only nice things about yourself.” She didn’t miss a beat, that one.

“Alright, last game, then it’s time for bed.” It was half past ten on a long day without solitude or sitting down. But when I made it back to the room, one of the women sharing it with me was throwing on a lihiya.

“Futhi! Come, we’re taking pictures.”

Eish. I hadn’t looked in a mirror all day, but I had the distinct feeling that I looked like a drowned rat that had been resuscitated and run over by the kooky khombi driver. Before I could respond, she threw a cloth at me and dragged me to the porch, where the men had constructed a photo box the previous night.

Again, I was grateful I hadn’t gone to bed early. We spent the next hour rotating in and out of the box for photo ops. Laughing, dancing, and hugging while the men slaughtered inhlabisabayeni on the other side of the homestead.

By the time my head hit the pillow, my cheeks burned, and I welcomed the wave of exhaustion that sank me into my dreams.

Monday

With my home all the way across the country, I hoped to get out of the community early. Many of the family members had left the previous night, and I assumed the hosting part of the ceremony had ended. At this point, I should have known better. Even when there wasn’t a lobola celebration, my Make had welcomed community members over for food and conversation.

Men came early to break down the tent, and I wandered around the property picking up bits of trash from the festivities. My bags were already packed, and I was biding my time until the entire family was awake so I could say my goodbyes.

It’s important to note that I can’t handle being idle, and women tend to carry a list of tasks in their minds. So, when I asked someone what I could do to help, I was once again roped into the task of meal preparation. Scrambling eggs, grilling sausages, slathering margarine on bread, and chopping up whatever vegetables remained for a garden salad—we rolled out a feast.

I was about 2 hours past my desired departure time, and when I tried to grab my bag and rush to the khombi stop, my Make and Bhuti halted me.

“Futhi! Udlile?”

Did I eat? Um, well, no, but I wanted to get on the road.

My Make read the answer on my face. I learned the rule months ago that no one is to walk out of the homestead gate without something in their bellies. Food was a common love language here.

Scarfing down my breakfast so quickly I hardly chewed, I wiped my plate clean and grabbed for my bags.

“Ntombefuthi, uyapi? Mbabane?”

Yes, I told them. I needed to get to the capital to transfer onto another khombi.

“We are going there. Wait, and we will drive you.” That was tempting, especially when I was playing Russian roulette with khombi drivers these days.

“When are you leaving?” Even with a ride to the capital, it would take me another two hours to get back to my host site.

“Within the next hour, sisi.”

So, I waited. And waited.

And ate some more food, was handed a plastic bag full of meat, a dozen avocados, a random baby, and waited some more.

I’m well adapted to Swazi Time at this point in my service. Frankly, it was my fault for believing that “an hour” would be any less than three.

Four hours later, I passed off the baby so someone else—still have no idea who he belonged to—and loaded my bags into the car. Another family member I had just met had volunteered to drive me halfway across the country, no questions asked.

As we thumped and rumbled up the dirt hill, waving goodbye to my family, I realized that, even though I felt like I belonged nowhere at times, jumping from country to country and home to home. If I wanted to, I would always belong there.

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