Nothing motivates a king to work harder like a beautiful bride

NAIROBI: My mother and I had just settled for breakfast when we heard an urgent rapping on the front door. I opened it to reveal a fat gentleman with a shuka, bearing his likeness, slung over one shoulder. Stuck in his hair was a colourful feather. “Madam,” he called to my mother who had joined us at the door, “do you have a marriageable daughter?” My mother’s jaw dropped, and I am certain my eyes must have opened wide at the oddness of the question.

“No, sir,” said my mother after recovering sufficiently from her shock, “I only have this young man.” The man looked disappointed. “You see,” he said eventually, “I am King Mswati of Swaziland, and I have come to your village to look for a bride.”

“Oh, Your Majesty,” said my mother in great astonishment, “do come in for a cup of tea.”

At the table, as he sipped his tea, the king looked distracted. Then, without warning, he stood up and began reciting a poem: She must be more beautiful than my 14th wife. Slender and with an ample bosom and bottom.

My mother, a little embarrassed by the poem, played with her cup, before saying, “Your Majesty, are not 14 wives enough?” The king looked horrified. “My grandfather had over 100,” he exclaimed, “I only have a paltry 14.” He looked saddened by the thought. After he finished drinking his tea, he asked me to show him to Old Nyati’s house. On our journey to the village sage’s house, the king showed me a picture of his latest wife, a ravishing beauty with big startled eyes.

“Now, my young friend,” he told me, “I want you to assess the girls we see on the road with that picture in mind.” As we walked, Mswati would fix an intense gaze on every young woman we came across, and seek my opinion as to how she compared to his wife. Uncomfortable with my new role as a beauty connoisseur, I would be vague in my answers, but the king would insist on more specific assessments. “How is the bosom, and bottom?” he would urge.

And thus engaged, we reached our destination. We found Old Nyati entertaining visitors with tales from his youth. “While employed as a dockworker in Zanzibar,” he was saying, “I eloped with an unrivaled beauty. But a rich suitor who was favoured by her parents sent thugs after me, and I barely escaped with my life, he!he!”

Everyone laughed and the king joined in. “You,” said Mswati happily, waving in the direction of Old Nyati, “will understand my situation perfectly.” The village sage walked to where the King and I stood. “You must be a visitor to our village,” he said, shaking the king’s hand vigorously.

The king introduced himself and his quest. “But,” he said amid hearty chuckles, “I do not intend to elope with the fine maiden... I will seek her parent’s consent, he!he!.” If Old Nyati was surprised by such a strange quest, he did not show it. He was the usual perfect host.

As Old Nyati and I escorted the King to his new residence at the edge of the village, I wondered why Swaziland insisted on customs not only anachronistic but also directly responsible for its social and economic stagnation. All human development and economic indices painted a horrifying picture: High child mortality, high illiteracy, high unemployment, high HIV prevalence, high poverty rates, etc. And yet the king lived an obscenely ostentatious lifestyle supported by the country’s limited resources. I thought back to a report that had reached us about the death of scores of girls in a road accident. They were on their way to dance topless for the king. Why did the country insist on practices that perpetuate backward patriarchal notions about women? Why did SADC and the AU not pressurise the country to democratise? Why did African intellectuals, who are quick to criticise Western cultural imperialism, not criticise this indigenous cultural despotism?

My mind was a whirlwind of questions. But Mswati, excited about finding a new bride, talked incessantly, saying how the new bride would be good for Swaziland.

“Nothing, my friends, motivates a leader to work harder like a beautiful bride,” he said. Old Nyati asked him if there would ever be a final tally of wives. The king was horrified. “Look,” he said, “the principle is simple; no new wife, no motivation to work harder!”

I could not help the naughty thought: work harder at what?