Pockets of sweat were rolling down Grandma’s forehead. The bitter salty perspiration did nothing at slowing down her pace. Suddenly she summoned me to buy eggs. Not that she trusted anybody else’s eggs for her cooking, but she needed more to ice the tiers of wedding cake.
Down the road from our farm house stood a newly built, unpainted cottage. A large sign hung on the gate indicating eggs were for sale.
The simplicity of the exterior matched the interior. A lone kerosene lamp stood in the middle of the roof, this was their source of light at night fall. A few personal items dotted the cottage; a mat made out of an old rice bag which served as the only comfort to their feet, and some clothes items.
I stood outside awaiting my eggs; standing in the May- June rain soaked soil, whiles peering into the cottage. It soon became evidence that I was sinking. I stood for a while and relished the chocolate colored mud which was oozing between my toes; this was something I could never do in the city. Happily I grabbed my basket of eggs and headed home.
In the deep of the night Grandma awoke to apply embellishment to the cake. She plastered the cake with the best marzipan W. Fogarty’s had for sale; followed by a layer of crisp royal icing, which was left to dry.
The silence of the night was suddenly broken by a low shriek. The icing had dried with a crack down the middle. This was a bad sign; a split on the icing indicated a split in the marriage. Grandma watched the cake in anguish, and then she spun the turntable and reapplied a layer of royal icing. Furiously, she fumbled with the icing pump while trying to make perfect roses out of icing sugar and prayed that this sweetness would remain forever in my uncle’s marriage.
Three tiers of cake stood elevating each other. Upon the top cake grandma placed a delicate plastic figurine of a bride and groom. Two golden trimmed plastic stairs extended from the top tier onto two equal sized cakes. One step hoisted plastic figurines of groom’s men dressed in Penguin suit; figurines of bride’s maids paraded the other.
Each cake was fashioned with sweet silver shoots and embellished with iced flowers and leaves.
Coconut palm leaves furbished the entrance of the Wedding Hall, handmade crafts and imported decoration hung homogenously; creating the feelings of elegant gaiety.
Old women with paper fans clenched small children with gleaming eyes, disgruntled aficionados; green eyed monsters, allies and foes alike all converged at the hall to usher in the bride and groom.
Grandpa took a seat in a dark corner avoiding all contact and pretended to sleep. It was his wise way of avoiding hypocrites. Dad tried to teach some farmers how to Fox Trot, but gave up when he realized they had neither love of classic music or dance.
The hall stood at a halt as the guests prepared for the appearance of the bride. In the background the soft melody of Chris De Burgh could be heard.
“I've never seen you looking so lovely as you did tonight
I've never seen you shine so bright
I've never seen so many men ask you if you wanted to dance
They're looking for a little romance
Given half a chance
And I've never seen that dress you're wearing
Or the highlights in your hair.”
A loud outcry of astonishment lit the room; unlike traditional Guyanese weddings, my aunt wore red.

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