La douceur du foyer est une benediction de dieu. Que sa Grace vous accompagne le long d'une vie riche d'amour est prosperite.

Tu quitteras un jour ton pere et ta mere pour aller vivre le reste de ta vie avec ton mari. C'est la parole de Dieu.

Those words are on the back of the invitation to the wedding we attended yesterday. The invitation is printed in green ink on glossy white paper, folded in half like a travel brochure. The front says "MARIAGE - Bourema & Fatim - Jeudi 22 Septembre deux mille 5." Inside are lists of family members and where they come from, like "Moussa TRAORE dit Bah Philadelphie - USA," and an invitation to the civil ceremony at the Commune III mairie (town hall) at 9:00 a.m.

In the morning I was gripped with anxiety about doing the right thing. Should we get there early? If we arrived too early, would we have to wait a long time? Was it more important to wear something dressy, or something that covered my knees, or something that covered my shoulders, or all of the above? Do I even own anything dressy, knee-covering, and shoulder-covering?

All that worry was for naught. We arrived at the mairie a few minutes before 9:00 a.m. Some other wedding guests were already in the courtyard behind the building, sitting on benches in the shade. We greeted them politely but did not make conversation. We sat for a minute with a crazy woman who demanded money from us, but tiring of her haranguing, we wandered off. As we stood near the front corner of the building, admiring the small rose garden there, the wedding party arrived.

E's friend Bourema was dressed handsomely in a light gray suit. His bride, Fatima, was in a Western-style white gown and veil. They slowly made their way around the side of the building, trailed by an entourage that included two bridesmaids carrying the train, two griots singing at the top of their lungs, a photographer, and a videographer. They paused to greet us warmly, kissing us three times.

When they reached the back of the building, they went inside to the small room where the civil ceremony would take place. The guests tried to follow, but there was only room for a few people, so the rest of us went back outside to wait. We saw another friend of E's and the program assistant from E's office. I admired the beautiful bezin dresses, some of which were not only dyed in brilliant hues, but featured cut-out patterns in contrasting colors. I wonder if that's the latest style in women's boubous?

A half dozen boys selling gum, tissues, and phone cards worked the crowd. The crazy lady harangued us some more. A second couple arrived and went inside while their party waited outside. We noted that many of the younger female guests (from both parties) wore dresses that bared their knees and their shoulders. I had nothing to worry about.

After fifteen or twenty minutes Bourem and Fatim emerged, smiling. They greeted their guests one by one; we had our picture taken with them. While they were near us we were approached by a male griot -- the first we'd ever seen. Instead of singing the distinctive ululating cry of the women, he shouted hoarsely at the top of his lungs. He wanted money from us, payment in advance for singing the praises of our ancestors; E pointed out that he doesn't know our ancestors. Without missing a beat the griot said "but the griot hasn't eaten!" E gave him 2000 and urged him to spend it on lemons for his ragged throat.

That was it for the ceremony. From the mairie, the entire group would move first to Fatim's mother's house, then to Bourem's friend's house for the party. The newlyweds got into their car -- decorated with multicolored cottonballs on the roof and trunk, spelling out "HEUREUX MENAGE" -- and drove off, followed by a convoy of joyous guests, on cars and motos, honking and flashing their lights.