In my village and the six surrounding districts, there was no wedding without wine.

It was custom to reserve the sweetest and best wine for last. It was believed that the closest relatives and friends of the couple and their families left the ceremony later than the spectators, at least that was what my grandmother said.

The dignified guests like the village chiefs and elders left with the family, custom demanded that they performed the last rites of blessing, pronouncements of fruitfulness and wisdom to nurture this new family and grace to steward the gift of children.

Marriage is an important part of our culture. The decision was made the day we were born, still sticky with blood and amniotic fluid, writhing and crying. The Taskmasters made the decision. We were destined to marry whoever they dictated, failure to adhere meant suffering. My grandmother said it was a sacrifice of wine and blood that bound us to them. The taskmasters were old but agile, wise and cunning, greedy, if you let them into the passage, they took over your entire household. Even though we avoided them, we married them and whoever they dictated. They arrived as soon as a woman groaned in childbirth. They watched as every infant slid into the world. We could never shake them off. A permanence sealed with blood and wine, wedding wine.

One day, Jachi met a man at the village well. This man was from far away. She said He was very beautiful with skin like copper polished with snake oil. He asked her to give him a cup of water and when she did. He proposed to marry her. What audacity! Jachi was betrothed to a Taskmaster. Jachi came into the village spilling nonsense about redemption. She called this man the eternal husband.

She had agreed to marry him. She had agreed to follow Him in every season. Her father was incensed, full of rage. My grandmother said that Jachi’s father was afraid. She said that fear immobilizes you when you are at the feet of redemption. She was the first villager to meet this strange man. She said his eyes shone like pearls and His words felt like a shea butter massage to her wrinkled soul.

Soon, many of us went to Him. Skepticism kept me far away, still in the shadows of the mango tree, His pearl- like eyes always found mine. 

This development upset the Taskmasters and so they connived with the village Chief Jachi’s father to kill Him. They picked the day of the wedding. While the bride adorned herself in white wool and scarlet anklets, rows of coral beads, the groom was beaten until bruised and bloody. As the bride hummed songs of anticipated redemption, the groom was hung on a tree left to die. As Jachi took a sip of the wedding wine as was custom, the groom bled, his blood soaking up the lush green grass of the forest. A new allegiance was created, with blood and wine, the wedding wine.

We knew the moment He died, I heard the thunder, I saw the Taskmasters’ faces contort in confusion and maybe fear. Their joy short lived like pink guavas on market shelves. The piercing wail that escaped Jachi’s lungs.. 

Then, we heard a song, its melody was the sound of chains breaking and of trumpets and harp, the sounds of a thousand voices singing of the wonder of a king. The melody morphed, we heard tambourines, joy assaulted our hearts. Freedom, shouts of Freedom.

He did not stay dead. On the third day, there was a wedding feast. My grandmother’s laughter rang out ‘Revival on the third day! Victory on the third day!’. On that day, Jachi’s mother brandished her new wine gourds. The wine tasted like freedom, fresh, blood red and free. It was the best wine we had ever tasted, Liberty.