African Marital Vow

Ezra Bature

Ezra Bature

Tuesday 16 December 2025

Before elders and unborn names,

before the drum that remembers us,

I take your hand.

I vow you to the soil that raised me,

to the river that taught me patience,

to the fire that shaped my voice.

I will walk with you in the market of days,

counting not coins but seasons.

When the granary is full, I will give thanks;

when it is empty, I will stand guard.

I vow you my labor and my listening.

My back in the sun,

my shadow in the heat.

I will not leave you to carry silence alone.

Before ancestors who lean close to hear,

I vow to mend what breaks,

to speak truth even when it trembles,

to keep your name safe in my mouth.

If storms scatter our path,

I will be the roof.

If night forgets the moon,

I will remember it for us both.

This vow is not mine alone

belongs to the clan,

to the drum,

to the dust that will one day receive us.

I take you,

not until comfort ends,

but until our footsteps

become one story

told to children yet unborn.

If you’d like, I can