Baris, so that is his name. I heard his grandpa calling him, and I observed how tensed he was in front of his grandfather. It was evident that his grandpa was his weakness. A smile crossed my lips at that thought – who would have imagined that this devil could genuinely care for someone?
As the food was served, I anticipated the spiciness it held. It was Melamain, a dish I recognized from my time in Diyarbakir. Green hot peppers fried in butter, grated tomatoes with garlic and seasoning, topped with eggs. I had never liked it back in Diyarbakir, and I was sure my taste hadn't changed. So, I diverted my attention to the other offerings.
Next was simit, a doughnut-shaped bread adorned with an abundance of sesame seeds. Alongside it, a regular bread sat, and as customary in this foreign breakfast, an array of items cluttered the table. Five types of cheese, olives, butter, three varieties of jam, analog cream, and yogurt – an overwhelming spread. I couldn't help but wonder why they felt the need for such excess. Where I come from, breakfast is simple and straightforward – tea, bread, and perhaps some gluten-rich accompaniments like chapati or mandazi. How you serve it is up to you, but it's a straightforward affair, leaving you satisfied.
Tea finally arrived, served in tiny glasses, stark black and without sugar. My Kenyan sensibilities recoiled – black tea without sugar was a symbol of destitution. I started eating, still in shock, hoping for something more substantial from the kitchen.
"Will you eat?" His voice jolted me from my thoughts. "Mmmmh" was all I could manage. I felt unsure of what to say or do. Taking the minuscule tea glass in my fingers, I sipped, returning it to the table. A piece of bread dipped in Melamain appeared in front of me – Baris was attempting to feed me. I couldn't handle the spiciness, and I whispered, embarrassed, aware that his grandfather was watching. "What are you doing?" I queried.
"Feeding my fiancé," he bragged. I braced myself for the expected spicy burst as the food touched my lips, but to my astonishment, it wasn't spicy – it was delicious. I opened my eyes to meet his gaze, and he smiled, nodding approvingly. "Can you eat by yourself now? I need to eat too," he said, adding more food to my plate. His sudden sweetness was perplexing and left me conflicted.
"Mmh. Some of us are single and old."
His grandpa complained. "And jealous," Baris added. I couldn't find words; his sudden sweetness left me bewildered, momentarily yearning for the authenticity of the moment. But as if on cue, Mr. Coj posed the inevitable question, "So when are you two getting married?" I choked on the food in my mouth, coughing slightly. Baris, ever the gentleman, patted my back gently before responding, "We have not decided yet."
Relief washed over me at his answer. At least there was time, and in my mind, I silently vowed to express my disinterest in marriage. However, Mr. Coj, unrelenting, countered with, "Why not? You two have been together for six months; you can get married today and start delaying your other decisions later." I chuckled, thinking it was a jest, but Baris surprisingly embraced the idea, declaring, "Why not? Today it is, we are going to get married today." "What?" I blurted out, unable to contain my surprise.
Before I could explain myself, Mr. Coj quipped, "Oh, sweet chocolate, what are you preparing that you've not prepared for the past six months?" I wished he understood that my encounter with his grandsons spanned just a few hours. Attempting to clarify, I stammered, "I think…" My words were cut short by the sudden pressure on my thighs as Baris signaled me to be silent. He smoothly interjected, "Don't worry, baby, all you need is to be the bride; everything else will be taken care of."
I was utterly lost. In Kenya, marriages were meticulously planned, often taking two years or, at the very least, a year. Numerous tasks awaited attention, from guest lists to traditional rituals and pre-wedding ceremonies. How on earth could we compress all that into a single day? Sensing my apprehension, the old man reassured me, saying, "You will just go and register your marriage, exchange vows, then we will have dinner together before you head to your honeymoon."
Honeymoon? The realization struck me like a forgotten melody. How could I have overlooked that detail? The prospect of marriage in a day seemed ludicrous, yet there was an undeniable charm in the simplicity of their approach. As I grappled with the whirlwind of emotions, the old man's assurance and Baris's calm demeanor left me pondering the unexpected journey that lay ahead.