Exploring the Zambian Wedding Tradition Centered on Culinary Delights

The first time my now-husband shared his love for Ethiopian cuisine, I thought he was trying too hard to impress me. Despite the many Ethiopian restaurants in New York City, most people I introduced to injera, the sour spongy flatbread that’s a staple, didn’t enjoy its taste. However, that night Joe and I savored injera the traditional way, scooping up vegetables and licking the sauce from our fingers.

Three years later, as we began planning our wedding in Zambia, my family asked if I wanted to host an Ichilanga Mulilo, a ceremonial feast honoring the groom where the bride and her family prepare various traditional Zambian dishes. This event is a welcoming gesture for the groom to share a meal with the bride’s family. I knew Joe appreciated African food; for a decade, he had been visiting Zambia with his educational foundation 14+. He had enjoyed his share of nshima, local beans, and more. Still, I felt nervous about hosting this event.

Having attended similar ceremonies for friends and cousins, I had always viewed the Ichilanga Mulilo as a reinforcement of outdated gender roles and patriarchy, emphasizing that women should belong in the kitchen. This tradition implies that a wife’s primary responsibility is to nourish her family, a notion that never resonated with me.

From a young age, most girls are taught to prepare nshima, a staple dish made from cornmeal or maize, boiled into a porridge-like consistency and served with stews and vegetables. My mother tried to teach me to cook nshima when I was a teenager, but my efforts often resulted in undercooked, lumpy meals. Eventually, I gave up on making Zambian dishes entirely, opting instead for American cuisine after my family relocated to New York in the early 2000s. Zambian food was reserved for weekly meals when my father craved it or for special occasions like our country's independence day.

Despite my initial hesitations about hosting the Ichilanga Mulilo, Joe’s love for Zambian cuisine prompted me to rethink my decision. To help make up my mind, I decided to explore the history of the ceremony. I met with Mulenga Kapwepwe, a writer and expert on Bemba culture, the ethnic group in Zambia that originated the Ichilanga Mulilo tradition, which is also my paternal heritage.

According to Kapwepwe, this event served to break food taboos between a groom and his mother-in-law, as a man was traditionally forbidden from sharing meals with his in-laws before engagement. She explained, “Historically, a man would move to his wife’s homestead for one to three years to demonstrate his ability to support her and her family. The food ceremony allowed him to experience the dishes that her family enjoyed.” Furthermore, she noted that the bride typically did not prepare most of the meals during the ceremony, only starting to cook for her husband about three years into their marriage after he had proven his capability to her family.

Although many traditional reasons for holding an Ichilanga Mulilo didn't apply to our contemporary relationship—since Joe and I would be living separately in New York—the ceremony still offered him a chance to experience our traditional foods. In the end, I chose to host it as a way to share my Bemba heritage with my partner.

On the day of the Ichilanga Mulilo, I arrived at my older sister’s house, where the cooking would take place. In the weeks leading up to the event, my mother and her sisters had crafted a menu featuring over 40 Zambian dishes. Most were prepared the night before and included staples like nshima, ifisashi (a kale dish in peanut sauce), chikanda (a vegetarian tuber dish resembling bologna), kapenta (fried sardine-like fish with tomato and onion sauce), munkoyo (a fermented drink made from pounded roots and cornmeal), among others.

As the bride, I was confined to a room in my sister’s house while cooking unfolded outside over an open flame. My sole responsibility was to prepare the nshima. I felt anxious due to my earlier failed attempts, but when it was time for me to cook, a traditional instructor called a cimbusa, hired by my family, guided me. I stood before a large pot of boiling water, and the instructor handed me a bowl of cornmeal to slowly mix into the water, starting the nshima-making process. I was then given a large wooden stick to stir as another woman added more cornmeal.

After about half an hour, I was given the cooking stick again. By then, the porridge had thickened. As more cornmeal was added, I stirred the pot. This technique is known as “ukunaya.” The bubbling cornmeal offered the women a chance to share advice: a bride should stay rooted at home, unlike the cornmeal that overflowed from the pot. My friends joined in, each taking turns stirring for a few minutes, mirroring the communal cooking practices of village women in the past and easing some of the bride’s stress. Eventually, my aunts finished the nshima, which is deemed ready once it reaches a firmer, thicker consistency after sufficient cornmeal is added.

Once all the dishes for the Ichilanga Mulilo were prepared, some of the women placed them in warmers and carried them into the house. As the drummers played traditional songs, my instructor guided me in serving the nshima from the large pot into smaller warmers. She opened each warmer and explained the significance of each dish. I was tasked with packing the ifipe, a term that once referred to special baskets but now typically uses large metal containers. These containers, filled with food for the groom, his family, his male instructor (known as a shibukombe), and my instructor, were wrapped in a white cloth tied into a knot by the bride.

The ifipe always includes several whole roasted chickens, each part symbolizing a specific role in Bemba culture that is explained to the bride and groom before the ceremony. For instance, the chicken's neck represents the woman's role in holding the marriage together, while the head symbolizes the man's position as the head of the household. However, since Joe is pescatarian, we decided to break tradition and substitute fish for chicken. I also don't subscribe to the symbolism associated with chicken, so I welcomed the change.

My friends transported the pots and dishes of food to the groom’s home. Traditionally, the bride remains with her mother and aunts at the preparation site, but I chose to defy convention by following the procession and observing the initial part of the ceremony from the car.

Upon arrival at the groom’s residence, the groom’s friends and instructor greet the bride’s friends, her instructor, and her drummers. The bride’s party announces their visit through a song that translates roughly to, “We have brought the food cooked on the fire.” In return, the groom’s side expresses gratitude by placing money on a chitenge. The women then enter the house where the groom is seated, as the bride’s instructor explains each dish, accompanied by singing and drumming from her team.

Only after every dish has been thoroughly explained does the bride’s family take their leave. At this point, the groom and his friends dig into the food, marking the completion of the ceremony. While at the venue, my instructor permitted me to leave the car where I had been waiting and join the guests and my fiancé. I felt a wave of relief that we had successfully completed the traditional rituals expected of us.

Food plays a central role in Zambian culture, serving as a way to welcome guests and celebrate new family members, like a groom. The Ichilanga Mulilo allowed me to share this cultural element with Joe. As we embark on our married life, I am excited to know that inspired by the dishes he experienced during the ceremony—from ifinkubala (deep-fried caterpillars) to chikanda (a vegetarian dish made from tubers)—we will enjoy many more Zambian meals together.

Mazuba Kapambwe-Mizzi is a freelance travel writer whose work has been featured in Afar, Conde Nast Traveler, Travel and Leisure and more. She divides her time between Lusaka, Zambia, and New York City.