A suit and a standoff
The sun was unrelenting, and so was the silence.
Zama* had gone back inside – to reason with her uncles, to plead for sense. Earlier, she had stood beside Siphiwe* in a burnt-orange dress and a navy duku (headwrap) – a quiet symbol of humility and respect. A doctor not just in title, but in temperament. Calm. Composed. But under that composure, fury simmered.
Now, only Siphiwe and Uncle Khaya* remained outside.
Siphiwe adjusted his collar. His black suit had soaked up the heat and the humiliation. For five long hours he had waited – not for a verdict, but a voice. A handshake. A sign that the gate would open and his future would begin.
But all he got was sweat and suspense.
Uncle Khaya folded and refolded a funeral pamphlet – the only fan under a jacaranda tree that refused to bloom. No blossoms. No breeze. No breakthrough.
Inside, Zama’s uncles debated cows and credentials.
What they didn’t know – or chose to ignore – was that Siphiwe wasn’t broke. He owned eight taxis crisscrossing Johannesburg from sunrise to midnight. On Fridays alone he cleared more than a rural principal’s monthly salary. No degree. No white coat. But he moved people and numbers like a quiet storm – the kind that doesn’t ask for applause, but makes things happen.
The offer rejected
“God help us, Siphiwe,” Khaya muttered. “They say the father’s reasonable – but the mother… ulihlaza (she’s unhinged). They want 12 cows. Twelve. Because she’s a doctor.”
Siphiwe didn’t answer. His jaw twitched. His pride tightened.
Then the gate creaked open.
Not an elder. Not a cousin.
Zama.
Her stepping out was a breach of protocol. Women didn’t appear during lobolo negotiations – certainly not the bride. But there she was, on the gravel path, her eyes swollen with frustration, her voice steady but tired.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I tried. But they say your offer is an insult. A doctor can’t be married off like a shop assistant. My mother says we’re embarrassing the family by settling for less.”
Uncle Khaya muttered under his breath, “Yabona manje? (Do you see now?)”
Siphiwe looked at her – really looked at her.
“Is that what you think too?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “But I don’t know if what I think matters.”
He turned to the house. Then back to her. “Then marry yourself.”
Before anyone could stop him, he walked off. The delegation exited before the chicken hit the fire.
Zama phoned him later. He didn’t answer.
Something had broken – not just the deal, but the bridge. Whatever ubuntu was meant to be, it hadn’t made it past the gate.
Lobolo – a covenant, not a cost
Lobolo was never about buying a wife. There were no receipts in the kraals of our grandfathers. It was cattle – not as currency, but as a covenant. A symbol of shared responsibility. Families shaking hands through beasts. A celebration – not a transaction.
If the groom had little, the elders made a way – through ukusisa (loaning cattle) or a simple ikhanda payment – a symbolic down-payment for the bride’s honour.
The ikhanda, meaning “the head”, wasn’t about buying a wife – but beginning a covenant. It said: “We see her worth, and we will honour it in full.” Marriage wasn’t a transaction – it was a trust. A young couple could start their life – not because the price was paid in full, but because their hearts were.
Lobolo was elastic – because ubuntu was alive.
But today – we’ve kept the cows and killed the covenant.
Hijacked by history
Where did this “12 cows” standard come from? Not from uMvelinqangi (God Almighty).
In 1859, colonial administrator Theophilus Shepstone pegged bride prices: £5 a cow. Eleven for an ordinary daughter. Fifteen for a chief’s. Thirty for a princess.
And we? We swallowed it whole.
We turned an intimate cultural dance into a rigid staircase – one with missing steps for the poor. We call it isintu (tradition), but maybe it’s isigebengu (a thief’s scheme) – a colonial counterfeit dressed in ancestral skins.
Now, love crashes into price tags. Families fracture over invoices disguised as honour. And poor sons watch their dreams expire – not for lack of love, but for lack of livestock.
When love costs too much
Zama and Siphiwe’s story isn’t rare. It’s on repeat – in Braamfontein, Bushbuckridge and the backrooms of Katlehong.
Lobolo isn’t a WhatsApp proposal. It’s umalume to umalume (uncle to uncle), family to family.
When it goes wrong, rejection is served with sharpened words across a lounge floor: “Your offer is an insult.”
And so they shack up. Or drift. Or raise babies apart – women carrying double the burden, not out of irresponsibility, but because the system priced love out of reach.
Marriage becomes a luxury brand – reserved for those who can afford cows and caterers. Meanwhile, love limps away – head bowed, dignity dented.
Let’s do the maths. A taxi driver earning R10,000 a month might save R1,000 monthly. At that rate, it would take more than a decade to afford 12 cows. That’s 10 years of watching others marry while he changes nappies in a backroom, wondering if he’ll ever be called umkhwenyana (son-in-law).
The stats don’t lie
A 2011 study by D Posel, S Rudwick and D Casale found that fewer than 25% of African women aged 20 to 45 were married – far lower than their white counterparts. Drawing from both national data and Zulu-speaking participants, the research showed that while many young people still value lobolo, its rising cost has made marriage increasingly inaccessible.
A 2020 UKZN study among students aged 18 to 24 confirmed the trend: lobolo is now seen as transactional and exclusionary. Degrees and virginity inflate bride prices. Women feel silenced. Men feel resentful.
The study warned – this fosters entitlement, and fuels gender-based violence.
What about her voice?
In lobolo negotiations the bride has no seat at the table. Zama’s return to the gate was not protocol – it was protest.
If lobolo is truly about honour, it must honour her too. She is not a price tag. She is a partner.
Love is not complete without consent – not just from families, but from the woman at the centre.
Broken bridges, broken boys
When marriage costs too much, fathers disappear. And when fathers disappear, violence moves in.
South Africa has one of the highest rates of father absence in the world: more than 60% of black children grow up without their biological father. Only 33% live with both parents.
These children are more vulnerable to abuse, poverty, and crime.
Cohabiting parents split more often. And the man who couldn’t afford cows walks away – leaving a woman with a dream denied and a child unclaimed.
Fatherlessness teaches boys that love is short. Women are replaceable. Violence is power.
In too many homes, culture justifies control. And when a man believes he’s paid for a woman – even culturally – what’s a slap? You don’t damage property. You discipline it.
This is how gender-based violence grows – not just in fists, but in frameworks. Not just in bruises, but in belief systems.
Restoring honour for all
True African honour doesn’t silence women. It invites them in.
If lobolo is about joining families, let the bride speak – not just in gratitude, but in decision. Let her say: “I love him. But not at the cost of his dignity.”
It’s time – reform, not rejection
We can’t keep blaming isintu for what ubuntu never signed off on.
It’s time to speak like elders and act like sons. If a tradition excludes the poor, humiliates the humble or destroys homes, then surely it no longer reflects the soul of African culture.
We don’t need to burn the hut. Just clear the smoke. Let’s return to the soul – where lobolo was elastic and love was priceless.
Where: Ukusisa (shared cattle) was normal; elders set fair, income-based ranges; and schools, churches – even TikTok – taught context.
Until then, we’ll keep ironing suits for ceremonies that collapse at the gate. And when the beast of violence roars, it won’t be a stranger.
It might be Siphiwe’s son. Raised in a home where love was lost at the gate. Raised by a mother who wore a duku of humility but carried rejection like luggage. Raised without a name spoken in love by both parents – because the cows were never enough.
And one day, he’ll raise his hand – not just out of anger.
But because he doesn’t know what covenant feels like.
Because ubuntu never made it into his home.
Because the price of honour was too high. DM
Names have been changed to protect privacy.