Honey-Making or The Proposal

In my short memoir, Witness in Silk, included in the anthology, "My Wedding Dress", I contrast my marriage by Akan custom to the wedding which followed. My dad had to perform this same custom for all four of his daughters in their turn. I remember after everything was finished by way of custom for his newly married daughter, he would have a shower and dress in a particular white woven cloth he had. It had indigo stripes running horizontally across it, and he called it his white cloth. He would sit outside all by himself, nursing a drink in his hand and keeping a very serious expression. And if you asked him, he would say. "Me wer3 ahow," meaning I am sorrowful. Here is a poem I wrote searching for his feelings every time he gave a daughter away in marriage.

Honey-making or The Proposal

They sat themselves proud

In his garden

Told him of the flower they had watched all season

Begin to unfurl

And open delicate petals

With dew drops glistening

Hanging tenaciously

Like the unshed tears

Of a proud woman

Full and ready to roll down

They told him

In garnished word salads

How much they yearned

Not only to linger there

And sniff the rich pollen-weighted aroma

Of his flower

Not only to gaze on the dark purple

That amazed and confounded

But compelled them

Beyond all caution

To pluck the flower

And make it their own

As he sat on his side of the garden

Lost in the business

Of pricing his flower

His special wonder

Which had grown up

Too quickly

Watered and pruned

Under care-giving hands

His desire was to preserve

The beauty of innocence

From greedy capricious

Flower harvesting hands

That would never rest

Until they devoured

What their eyes admired

“Did you know,” he said,

Nectar is what attracts true bees

And honey-making is their need?”