Ruracios Are Going Too Far; Daylight Robbery at a Friend’s Ceremony [Money & Me]

Ruracio (or dowry payment ceremony) has always fascinated me. As a child, it was one of those cultural events I would eagerly look forward to — the food, the songs, the dancing, and the sheer pomp of it all.

But as I hit 25, the excitement quickly wore off. Not because I was under pressure to marry, but because suddenly, my friends were the ones getting hitched. And with every ruracio invite came the dreaded WhatsApp group. You know the drill — endless meetings, contributions, buying uniforms the couple had pre-approved, and being available the entire day. Sometimes, more than 12 hours of your weekend would vanish into this one event.

Mike’s Voi Ruracio

In January 2024, one of my closest friends, whom I will call Mike, hosted us for an evening out. Normally, these gatherings are our way of keeping the bond alive — four times a year, drinks on one of us, lots of banter, and catching up on life. But this time, Mike had an announcement.

“December is the date,” he said with a grin, hinting that he was getting ready to settle his Kamba lover's dowry before year end. “Voi. You guys are my lineup.”

Just like that, we were in ruracio mode. A WhatsApp group was born that very night. Budgets were drafted, pledges made, and the target was set at Ksh1.5 million.

The boys didn’t hold back. Some pledged over Ksh50,000. I stretched myself to contribute Ksh30,000 — money I honestly couldn’t spare, but hey, it was Mike’s big day. By November, we had raised about Ksh1.2 million. I thought the hardest part was done. Little did I know, the real spending had only just begun.

The Day of the Event

Eastern Kenya ruracios are a whole production, I would come to learn. Mike had told us to be in Voi by Friday afternoon to help with preparations, since, culturally, it is the groom and his team who are expected to do the cooking, set up the tents, and handle all the bills for the event. Unfortunately, work held me up, so I only made it on Saturday morning, the very day of the event. I travelled straight from Nairobi.

The first thing I was told when I arrived, by my fellow line-up boys crew, was if I had Ksh3,000 in cash, in small bills of Ksh100, Ksh200, and Ksh500 notes. I froze largely because nobody had mentioned this part, but out of caution, I looked for the loose bills.

At around 11 a.m., the event kicked off with song and dance. As one of the groom’s lineup, I was ushered into the compound amid ululations, shaking shoulders and all. After 20 minutes of excitement, the MC stopped us before we could sit. “No seat without Ksh1,000.” Just like that, the day’s deductions began.

Then came the dance challenge. If your moves were questionable, it would cost you Ksh500. Some of us had two left feet that day, and the fine was paid.

Next, the MC ordered us to pair up. Anyone single? That was me, and another Ksh500 fine followed. This one stung.

And then the real test followed: the unveiling of the bride. A line of women with similar features as the bride, was paraded in front of Mike. They were covered all over in matching lesos to hide their identity, and the groom had to pick his bride, Ruth, from the lineup. A wrong choice attracted a Ksh50,000 fine. A correct choice? Still a Ksh10,000 fee. That meant that a wrong choice, then a right choice would attract Ksh60,000.

Mike missed the first attempt. We, the boys, were quickly summoned nyuma ya tent to chip in for the fine, which was settled before he made another attempt. It was only after the second attempt that he correctly identified Ruth. Relief swept over us — until we were called again, this time to untie lesos from the bride, each at Ksh1,000.

By midday, my Ksh3,000 cash reserve was gone and I switched to M-Pesa. Every other activity — from contributing to stage presentations, to clearing random fines — came with its own bill. By evening, I had coughed up an extra Ksh9,000.

And this was before factoring in my three nights in Voi at Ksh3,000 a night (Ksh9,000 total) and the food and extras around the trip. When I sat down to do the math, my total spend was north of Ksh22,000.

My Reflection

Immediately after the ruracio, December bled me dry. With Christmas just around the corner, I knew my January would be nothing short of a financial hangover.

Looking back, I don’t regret standing with Mike. Friendship, after all, is not something you measure in shillings and cents. But I can’t ignore the reality — rural ceremonies like ruracio have evolved into costly productions, and most times, the guests end up footing unexpected bills.

If there’s one lesson I took from that December, it’s this: contribution doesn’t end with the WhatsApp group pledge. You need to budget for the unspoken extras — the fines, the travel, the accommodation, and the cultural curveballs you didn’t see coming.

That ruracio taught me more about my wallet than any New Year’s resolution ever could. And next time I get added to a WhatsApp group, the first thing I’ll ask is not, “How much is the contribution?” but rather, “What’s the real damage going to be?”