Even poor young men could marry through gutenda, working for their father-in-law when they lacked cattle. As one elder from Gasabo recalls, 'A man could marry through hard work, not money. What mattered was his character.' His wife added with a nostalgic smile, 'Inkoko n'ihene zashoboraga guhuza imiryango. Ubu byose byarahindutse.' ('A chicken or goat could unite families. Today everything has changed.') Another elder from Kimironko echoed the sentiment: 'Inkwano was a blessing, not a bill. If we lose that, we lose the meaning of marriage.'
But modern life has reshaped this cherished custom. Today, bride price negotiations in some families resemble financial transactions more than cultural rituals. For families living on the margins, the marriage of a daughter can feel like a rare economic lifeline. In parts of Rwanda, for example, parents/families often demand several cows or a sum of cash during marriage negotiations.
What was once symbolic has slowly become commercial, a shift many young people say is making marriage feel out of reach. In some Rwandan families, inkwano has become a strategy to replace livestock lost to drought, fund the education of younger siblings, or pay off long-standing debts.
One father from eastern province describes the pressure bluntly: 'When you have nothing, and someone offers ten cows to marry your daughter, you start to see the marriage as a blessing from God. You don't think about her future; you think about survival today.' Such sentiments illustrate how economic desperation alters the moral landscape surrounding inkwano. A local leader in Bugesera expressed concern: 'We are receiving more complaints from families than before. The negotiations are turning into arguments instead of celebrations.'
A young mechanic from Nyamirambo put it bluntly: 'You can love someone, but if her family demands three cows, what do you do? Marriage is becoming something only the rich can afford.' One young man from Nyagatare shared his frustration: 'I want to marry, but the demands are impossible. It feels like you must be rich before you can even love someone.'
A university student from the University of Rwanda shared a similar concern: 'My girlfriend and I planned to marry after graduation, but her parents want so much. Sometimes I feel like giving up and just focusing on my job.' In Kigali, a moto rider explained his dilemma: 'I earn just enough to survive. How do they expect me to bring cows, cash, and furniture? You feel defeated before you even start.'
In Gahanga, a group of young men sitting at a bus park joked bitterly about bride price: 'A cow today costs more than our yearly savings,' one said. Another added, 'Wagira ngo dushaka kugura ikibanza, si umugeni!' ('It's like we're buying a land, not a bride!') A third chimed in, 'If this continues, many of us will stay bachelors forever.' Though said in humor, their frustration reflects a growing national concern.
The rising cost of bride price also affects women. When a groom pays heavily, some men feel entitled to greater control over their wives. One woman shared, 'Whenever I questioned anything, my husband reminded me, 'Do you know how many cows I gave for you?' That sentence alone could silence me and start to feel like I was bought.' This dynamic traps women in cycles of emotional and economic dependence, reinforcing gender inequality.
A member of a women's cooperative in Nyabugogo added, 'We hear many stories of men who believe inkwano gives them ownership. This thinking must change.' Another young woman from Kigali recalls, 'My uncles would say, 'You are our only hope; when you marry, we will finally recover.' I felt like everyone was waiting for me to save the family.' This burden turns daughters into economic assets, reshaping upbringing, education, and even personal aspirations. When bride price becomes too high, it puts pressure on both sides. It turns love into negotiation.
Human rights activists warn that as bride price becomes more commercialized, its original meaning is being lost. Instead of symbolizing unity, it can create tension, resentment, and financial stress for new couples. A pastor in Gikondo commented, 'We counsel couples who start marriage already in debt because of inkwano. That debt becomes the first conflict in the home.' At the same time, no one wants to abandon inkwano altogether. It remains a valued Rwandan tradition, one that still has the power to bless a marriage when practiced with moderation and respect.
A mother in Nyarugenge summarized this sentiment well: 'Inkwano should open the door for the young couple, not close it. If we demand too much, we kill the joy and burden their future.' A father from Gatenga echoed this message: 'Our parents asked for one cow.
Today people want five to ten cows, televisions and sofas. Tugomba kwisubiraho.' ('We need to rethink ourselves.') A village elder in Rebero put it firmly: 'If we keep raising the price, our sons will stop marrying and our daughters will stay home longer than they wish.'
There are practical steps communities and policymakers can take to restore balance. Families can choose to keep inkwano symbolic rather than extravagant, remembering that its value lies in honor, not wealth.
Community leaders can encourage reasonable expectations through local dialogues, helping reduce pressure on young couples. A women's rights activist in Kigali suggested, 'Let families agree on limits that protect culture but also protect young people from financial stress.' Public awareness campaigns especially on radio and in schools can highlight the risks of turning marriage into a marketplace negotiation. And while no law should dictate bride price, communities can adopt voluntary guidelines that promote fairness and cultural integrity.
Ultimately, Rwanda has always found strength in adapting traditions without losing their heart. If families return to the original spirit of inkwano, young people will once again see marriage not as a financial obstacle but as a hopeful beginning. A tradition meant to unite should never divide, and a practice meant to honor should never burden.
The future of Rwandan marriage depends on restoring balance so that love, not money, becomes the true foundation of family life. As one grandmother from Kabeza reminded her family during a recent gusaba: 'Umugeni si igicuruzwa. Ni umuntu uje kongera ibyishimo mu muryango.' ('A bride is not a product. She is a person who comes to bring joy into a family.')
The author of the article, Alex Twahirwa is a policy analyst
Alex Twahirwa
Source : https://en.igihe.com/opinion/article/bringing-back-the-meaning-of-inkwano-a-call-for-moderation
