The faces at my wedding

There's a hate that runs deep in my veins.
A hate that has brought me scars and trauma.
A hate that has turned my blood black, and has made my gums grow dark.
A hate for things not going right,
and it has made me grumpier, quieter—yet craving all the finer things life offers. 

A hate that has formed a cocoon around me.
It has shut me off from joyful sounds.
I am no longer impressed by the giggles of children,
nor the blooming of soft lilacs and lavenders.
I am no longer stirred by confetti, or ballooned aisleways in church.
I am no longer excited by the road toward home,
nor depressed by its gray departure path.

A hate that has made me love the night, and abhor the stage's blinding gold spotlight.
A hate that has turned crowds cold, and made warm solitude my closest companion.
A hate that loathes toddlers’ chaotic joys, and curses their sticky fingers on my leather couches.

A hate that found solace in stillness.

But most importantly, a hate that confirmed,
even at just twenty years of age,
the faces that will be at my wedding—
If there will be a wedding, that is.

Not in dreams, but in daily fantasies.
The faces are already known.
No surprises or strangers.
The gathering is already sketched in memory’s hallway.

The faces at my wedding won't witness ‘dignified’ clergymen.
They will not witness pretense in the form of suits, gowns and titles,
nor pastored pomp behind holy-voiced lies.
No ties, no clerical collars, nor greased spiritual charlatans.
No devils decorated as pastors, dressed as disciples in robes.
No hands that once pulled me downward.
No forgiveness feigned just for wedding photos.
No.
Only the purest of remembered companions invited.

The faces at my wedding won’t applaud unnecessary speeches.
They’ll trade laughter over soft crackling firewood.
No long words about journeys and fate—Only inside jokes shared over clinking glasses.
Memories rising like smoke from the roasted meat.
Toasts raised in honour of those fallen,
and toasts for the victories thus far.
A night for the living.

The faces at my wedding wear themselves freely.
No much foundation, contours or showy eyelash feathers.
No ‘hairstyle of the week’ Instagram stunts.
They came as they are—quietly, wholly.
All eyes would be on the bride anyways.
A beautiful peacock adorned in the most simple yet elegant white dress;
white as dove wings at dusk.
The centre of attention.
The bride adorned for her husband.

The groom, regal in an archaic British 18th Century court dress.
Long tailcoat flowing, ivory-white stockings tight-bound.
Buckled shoes tapping to an unseen rhythm.
Cravat knotted high.
A British-themed gentleman of the Georgian kind,
yet a Kenyan heart thumping behind stitched silk.
Clothes speaking redemption more than fashion ever could.
His love pure, and his suit a confession.

The faces at my wedding won’t filter moments.
No chase for flash, reels, or perfection.
Only mouths chewing, arms embraced in hugs, and unfiltered laughter spilling.
Plates lined with buffalo ribs and dripping brisket.
Sweet teriyaki crocodile cubes on silver sticks.
Smoke rising from boerewors coiled like rope.
Fingers licked, shirts unbuttoned, stomachs blessed beyond comprehension.

But these are the wishes of youth.
Of a 20-year-old still nursing wounds.
Still dreaming love into his darkest crevices.
Only God knows what truth time reveals.
Only God knows who the bride becomes,
and why her.
Only God knows what faces arrive,
and what faces stay.
Only God knows,
Who claps at joy... and who walks away.

✍🏽Reagan.