A few days will pass again before another ceremony, actually the days it takes to brew some more beer. I count four days and on the fourth night, the singing in the hovel failed to reach us at 9 p.m. as usual. They sung the usual after-meals thanksgiving song and nothing else after that. What I feared was confirmed by mom, the initiates were going to the dam for a ritual called kayaet- the equivalent of baptism, and the last song we heard was actually the very last we would hear from them. Really? Yes. The evening songs were over till the next year. Gosh!
It is from Kap Elibut dam, the one we used to go fishing for mudfish that the initiation songs filter to our ears, late at night. It is some way off from home and it was chilly outside. Could we repeat our escapade? No. mom would not let us. I could see a huge bonfire in that direction though. Oh, now I remember, we had tried taking our goats in that direction during the day but we were turned off. The elders must have been laying ground for the rituals. Ok. Now I know.
Did mom say baptism? Out of their childhood I guess. No wonder boys return so altered in character when they graduate, they undergo baptism of water and fire! Mom reminded us that the following day would be an interesting day for men and boys but not for women and girls. I did not understand what she meant. And I slept trying to figure out the riddle in vain.
It is a Friday, market day in Ndanai as usual. It is 6 a.m., I am disturbed from a deep sleep by some shouts, anchon kimutulik!- watch out for the initiates! I woke up, my mom did not stir in her bed, and I thought she should have been out milking. She is awake though; my young sister Chebet wakes up too and makes to go out; mom tells her no. “You will be caught!” She told me to go to the road and see what was happening. I am off to the road; in my mind is what she had told me the previous night; ‘…an interesting day for men and boys but not for women and girls.’
There was a thick mist all over. I could not see a meter away, mist was falling like chalk dust making the world very white you could get lost in your own compound. Before I stepped on the piercing cold stones of the road, it dawned on me why girls, any female species, could not stir outdoors; it was the day of metoet- renouncing childhood! How stupid am I to have forgotten!
Obot Rusi, a neighbor of ours across the road on the hill was shouting from her window warning women that the initiates were marauding in the neighborhood. “Paulina, don’t stir out, the initiates are all over. Rebecca, don’t milk today, they will catch you…” went Obot Rusi’s warnings.
Today, boys could get close to the initiates without any consequences. I strained my eyes along the road, I saw nothing. I capped my ears to listen to the pak pak pak of people running with leather, I heard nothing. Not surprising though, the game was a stealth operation.
A memory of events of the previous year started unfolding as I stood on the chilly December air. The male initiates, after getting ‘baptized’ in the dam the whole night, come out clean. They carry each two intertwined twigs of Sodom apple stems, dipped in mud. With these sticks, they smear girls, women and old women with the mud in the twigs.
It is said that when the initiates smear you with the mud, you become stupid. They don’t smear them on relations or their village mates though but initiates from other villages come to our village and ours go elsewhere. So, you never know from which direction they may come from, or exactly when. Inquiries help to estimate the likely days though, hence people are not caught entirely unawares except for a few surprises.
I walked along the road towards Arap Suge, looking for them. A few paces ahead, I met some five strange men, not from our village, walking along the road but not talking. I was sure they were the initiates’ handlers, always walking ahead to catch unsuspecting women. I continued walking.
Hidden inside the depression of the cattle dip were thirty initiates or so. I was in the process of counting them when I heard a girl scream in the direction where the five strange men had gone. They had nabbed their prey! The initiates ran with their soiled twigs, I ran behind them to watch the drama.
The hapless girl was a Kissii by tribe, our neighbors; she was carrying bananas to the market. Two men were holding her; the initiates were smearing the mud in their sticks all over her, fast. The girl was screaming and struggling to be left alone in her mother tongue. The two men held her tight like a lion holding its prey as they laughed at the girl. The girl peed on herself, her yellow petticoat fell down but still the men were unmoved, they just laughed louder. When the initiates were done with her, they ran ahead.
The two men released the girl, ate all her bananas and kicked the basket she was carrying bananas with along the road and disappeared into the thick mist. I tried following the marauding gang with my gaze into the mist but all I could hear was the pak pak pak of leather. Soon, the pak pak pak faded too.
I was left alone staring at a sobbing muddled mess of a girl; her face was the only place that was spared from the mud. What a merciless bunch of goons those guys were!
I was wondering why nobody else responded to her screams, after pondering for a while I came to the realization that it was too early for boys my age, older men didn’t care stirring out of their houses for they deemed it child play and young men who would have loved watching the drama, would have gone with the initiates from our village to play a greater role than just watching, elsewhere. Women were out of the question: locked in their homes till ten a.m.
It was so cold I squatted and stared at the girl, maybe ogled to be sincere. She was still sobbing but there was little I could do, not that I was uncompassionate, no, the language barrier. My English was non- existent, my Swahili was just a smattering and I did not know a word of their language.
That girl was beautiful, full cheeks and small lovely eyes. Her tears had meshed up her eyelashes and thus looked very delectable. There was some mist that had settled on her hair, making an angelic white hallo, like the drawing of Virgin Mary. She stood rooted to the spot, not knowing what to do. Her petticoat, laced so beautifully in spite of the mud, covered her legs. She did not move an inch; I did not flinch in my squatting position either. With my head turned up at her face, hands supporting my cheek, it was like a worshipping scene. Her as the deity of beauty, me as a dazed supplicant. The mist supplying the hallowed quiet.
I don’t know how long we remained thus but when I regained my sanity, I tried a mixture of Kipsigis and Swahili to convince the girl that we go home so that she may wash herself and change into my sister’s school uniform( she was in her school uniform too- blue and yellow tunic of Memisi Primary School). It took a lot convincing to make the girl move from that spot. The deal clincher was when I warned her that some other initiates may get her there again.
Our house was locked from the inside; the handlers sometimes went as far as fetching women from the comfort of their beds.
It was after some persuasions that my mom could open her locked door, not easily fooled; she heard the footsteps returning were of more than one person. So she thought maybe I had been hoodwinked or forced to make her open the door. At last, she peeped from the window to confirm first what I was telling her then opened for us. She pitied the girl, warmed her water to bathe, gave her my sister’s school uniform and served her with tea.
The girl, Kwamboka, was regaining her composure every passing minute. In my mind I was wishing the beautiful girl could be ours to stay. She was told to wait till when there were no more initiates around so she could go back to her home.
Meanwhile, in the next village of Chepkalwal, shouts from unfortunate women continued, the initiates left wailings in their wake. That game disrupted a lot of activities in the village: milking was delayed and farming in secluded places was suspended altogether. Even journeys were postponed. That is how dreaded the thing was. Some women fainted when caught and ended up in hospital. In reality though, nobody ever became stupid, only made fun of for a day or two.
It is ten in the morning, no more drama. The initiates have all gone.
Tomorrow will be the turn of female initiates to hunt for males and soil them too. I won’t stir out of the house. Payback time. Women roam about, men’s turn to be in. Not even a one month’s old baby is spared, and women leave them indoors as they go about their duties. Girls’ day out!
That evening, we accompanied James’ mother to Kap Kirei, where the very last of ceremonies were to be conducted in preparation for the passing out parade. The initiates’ mothers took new leather outfits that the initiates were to put on the auspicious day to be blessed there.
As the women were holed up inside doing whatever they were doing to those outfits, we busied ourselves stoning some dogs that were on a mass mating spree. One male dog had its penis stuck on a female. The hundreds or so boys turned it into a sport by throwing stones at the dogs to separate them, shouting at the top of their voices. We must have vexed the women because they came out charging at us with sticks. End of the sport, lucky dogs, I swear we would have stoned them to death like some adulterous women in the Bible.
But don’t dogs enjoy the best sex in the world? Imagine I envied them alongside donkeys! (Hey, when I was younger, I once told my mom I had seen a donkey with five legs in the mill and that the fifth black leg was moving up and down, little did I know that the ‘fifth leg’ was actually its penis, poor me!)
I was roused from my reverie by men and women who were filing out of the house, with men in front, tossing spears in the air singing ‘suiyo’, ‘suiyo’ , dressed in leather attires. They sung all the way to the field and circled the field, still singing. I had never seen the ceremony before and since mom was not around, I had nobody to ask. I let just let them sing.
At home in the evening having supper of liquid pumpkin and ugali, I was shocked to hear the initiates sing in the hovel again. It was a strange new song, not the one we were used to. I hurriedly finished my food and with my brother Alois, went out to check what was going on. There was a big bonfire in the direction of the hovel. I thought they had burned it but funny enough, they were running and singing round the bonfire. We decided to walk closer, the hovel was standing. Maybe they were burning their personal effects which were not fit for the eyes of the boys who were to go scavenging there after they left.
Getting closer, we saw the initiates singing and running round the bonfire. The song went like:
Soloist: akoiyo (I have no idea what ‘akoiyo’ means)
Chorus: akoiyo
Soloist: akoiyo ne mie (akoiyo of peace)
Chorus: akoiyo
Soloist: akoiyo
Chorus: akoiyo
Soloist: akoiyo nebo bany ( akoiyo of meat)
Chorus: akoiyo
Soloist: akoiyo
Chorus: akoiyo
Soloist: akoiyo nebo chei ( akoiyo with milk)
Chorus: akoiyo
Soloist: akoiyo
Chorus: akoiyo
Soloist: akoiyo ne leel (a white akoiyo)
Chorus: akoiyo
Soloist: akoiyo
Chorus: akoiyo
They sung and ran so fast round the fire I could hear them choke with words. To date I am still puzzled as to why the initiates did everything running. It is still an enigma. We watched them run nonstop till the fire died down. After the singing, they left for an unknown destination. They never returned again for the following day we collected the embers from the fire that had always been burning there since that first day and took it to James’ home. The fire that remained was left to die a natural death. In our culture, it is a taboo to extinguish a fire in the hearth for it symbolizes continuity of life.
We scavenged for arrows in the hovel and ransacked it in the hope of catching a glimpse of whatever the initiates were doing but there was nothing to betray their mystery. The hovel was bare, just like it was before it was occupied. Either they did nothing in there or they burned all the evidence to ashes. The latter was probable for we had seen a fire the previous night. We collected some few arrows and nothing else. We left the hovel with fleas jumping on the floor, maybe trying to follow us, a lonely mabwaita standing outside, looking forlorn. A handful of arrows were all we got, and not a single clue on the life of its previous occupants.
We will sleep here tonight to get a feel of how life was to the initiates. At least the fire still burns inside, so there is continuity of life, minus the mystery.
It is 3 p.m., Saturday.
The sun is high, slanted towards the western horizon. There are no clouds in the sky, perfect day for swimming. But today, we are busy elsewhere.
We are in Kap Kirei where a month ago, all the initiates had congregated in robet - parading. It is here where they come to graduate again, to complete the cycle. Just like at robet, there are so many people. Seated along the hill, some in the shade, some in the hot sun, sweating profusely. The usual drunks are drunk, I note a few converts who have the excuse of the ceremonies to drink too. Everybody is waiting for yatetab oret –graduation ceremony.
It is one of the most well attended ceremonies of all. People are happy that the initiates are finally out; a memorable welcome awaits them, not to mention the feasting. It is their day and they are treated with respect, love and admiration. Rigidity of traditions does not allow them to relish in the ecstasy of the moment though. They are expected to look tough and manly. So the excitement is only one way.
We are all eagerly awaiting them to be in our midst once again, at least us boys and women, who have never interacted with them for a whole one month. There is anticipation in the air, the women are anxious to see their sons once again. For many, it is the longest time they have ever parted with a child. Of course there are no boarding schools or holidays in our community, so please understand them.
From the hill, resplendent in long beaded leather clothes with black leather hoods, the initiates led by the initiator Mr. Haraka Up! descended in a single file, slowly like drowned ants, heads bowed down- they reminded me of elephants. The women on seeing this broke into song and dance. They seemed not to take any notice; they neither increased their pace nor looked up to see the dance. It was ululation and dance once again from the women who were dressed in traditional leather clothes too.
After what felt like eternity, they arrived, circled mabwaita four times in the same pace and pose. On closer examination, all of them held two long sticks with leaves at the end-sirtitik. They wore a lot of bangles on their hands, beaded necklaces and anklets. Their long leather dresses were tied at the waist with sinendet leaves. They hardly looked like men but women from their dressings. Each held the sticks with the right hand while the left hand held the hood; we could not see their faces.
After circling mabwaita four times, they made a single line extending from a leafy mock gate made in the field. Their mothers, holding cow horns full of milk cream with lush green grass sticking out from them, took on the task of looking for their sons to oil them, to welcome back to civilization.
With the initiates covered all the way to the head, with only the bare feet showing, mothers must identify their sons without having to open their faces. It is a tough task, for the boys have fattened up. We set out to look for James after his mother Rebecca failed after going through all of them three times. I soon found him from a scar in his left foot he got from a hare bite long time ago.
His mother lowered his hood upon confirming that he was the one, marveled at how big and chubby he had grown, and oiled his cheeks talking to him:
‘Hey, you are now a big man. Hi. It now remains for you to go back to school and work hard.”
The initiates are instructed not to smile or talk. James is as still as a rock. We are all over him, inspecting him and smiling though he doesn’t smile back. He gently pulled his hood back when the oiling business was over, without a word. How people change? I could not believe my once closest friend could not say hi to me, traditions notwithstanding!
When all the initiates were oiled, their mothers having had a tough time identifying them, the next business was to graduate them. The little gate was to be passed by every graduate. The gate was made of bushy leaves, and the threshold had some mud made of mixing milk, Sodom apple, cow-dung, ash and beer. Dunno what they meant. In the middle of the gate are two sticks loosely fixed on the ground such that it can move in and out with ease.
As an initiate approaches the gate, he squats and holds the movable sticks. A young girl, probably a sister squats on the opposite side of the gate with the initiator. The three of them hold the two sticks, pull them up and push them back into the mud four times as they all sing:
“Oyotwon oret kataran ririmik” ( open the way for me , ants are biting me)
The blesser is at hand too to sip his beer from his gourd and spit on their hands. After that the girl step on the cow dung with her right foot and smears it on the right foot of the initiate, the initiate does the same to the girl. The initiator does the same to the initiate too. The initiate stoops and enters the gate to the other side. He is now a man, in accordance with the traditions of the land.
When all the initiates have been ‘opened the gate’ for, they are divided into groups according to the mother who was supplying them with food in the hovel. Henceforth referred to as mom too. Awaiting them is a night of dance and feasting, a ceremony called ribet –protection. You see, in the past, men were free to marry immediately after circumcision so they had to be protected from being snatched to be married off by undesirable girls. Schooling stopped the practice but the tradition of ‘protecting’ the boys lived on.
All the attention is paid to the initiates, though they don’t talk, everybody tries to catch a glimpse of them in their new status. Whatever they were fed with in menjo, I could not tell, for they came out bigger, taller and ruddy. They looked so fresh. Our former friend James looked a man, not the former playmate of one month ago. Indeed, a woman might have been tempted to steal him for a husband.
There is drinking beer, eating beef and merry making the whole night till the following day at 4 p.m. to welcome the graduates home. True to the notion of ‘protecting’ the graduates, sleeping is highly discouraged and in fact, the graduates too sleep on the floor, surrounded by revelers.
‘Protection’ continues, a night each at the home of every graduate. We have so many days of fun once again. Blessed be the man who started the whole idea of cultural festivities.
It is 4 p.m., Sunday.
We leave again for Kap Kirei for the very last ceremony called tiletab kirokto- ‘cutting of the stick’. You see, one of the two long sticks the graduates are carrying has to be cut to complete the initiation process.
All the initiates are gathered once again. Quiet as always, the only change is that they have done away with their hoods. There are so many people gathered again, for there is a mass choir that is sung for the very final time. It is a song as well as a prayer, for the land, its people and most importantly the fresh graduates.
The graduates and their mothers, all dressed in leather clothes, form a circle around the blesser. He is regally dressed as always. The women rap their thighs and move in anticlockwise motion around the initiator and so do the quiet graduates too. Anybody may join in, some choose to just watch, I go for the former. Wait a moment, singing has started:
Blesser: Murenik we aiyee ( they are men o aiye)
Chorus: aiya oiyee ( aiya oiyee)
Blesser: tiny ibin we aiyee ( they have an age-set)
Chorus: aiya oiyee
Blesser: Kaplelach we aiyee( kaplelach is an age-set)
Chorus: aiya oiyee
Blesser: tiny koima we aiyee (may they have women to marry)
Chorus: aiya oiyee
Blesser: somanet we aiyee ( may they pursue education)
Chorus: aiya oiyee
Blesser: tikirii we aiyee( may they get degrees)
Chorus: aiya oiyee
Blesser: pitonin we aiyee( may they go for further education abroad)
Chorus: aiya oiyee
Blesser: tiny sanik we aiyee (may they have in-laws)
Chorus: aiya oiyee
The song and dance continues till the blesser exhausts all his exhortations. It is a very popular dance and almost the whole village participates in it, they cannot have enough but the blesser is forced to stop because of time.
After the singing, the initiates are ordered into a line towards mabwaita, where the blesser is seated on a three-legged stool holding a very old axe and a wooden anvil placed on a skin. Once again, mothers oil their sons, this time round sticking some solid fat on their forehead and planting lush green grass on the fat.
The graduates move one by one and kneel next to the blesser. The blesser is paid money by a mother or father of the graduate for ‘cutting the stick’ (money owed the initiator and blesser for all ceremonies. Without the money, the blesser would not cut the stick and hence the ceremony would not be complete. Some poor parents could not afford the fee but instant fundraisers were done till all the graduates have all had their sticks cut and hence complete the ceremony.)
When the fee is paid, the blesser, harrumphing and coughing all the time, cuts off the leafy end of one stick and hands it over to the graduate while he places the other uncut piece on the mabwaita . The graduate then carries the other till the day he gets home so he may put the stick in their own mabwaita when his turn to be received at his home arrives.
The day he gets home, he will place the stick in mabwaita, .He then sits on a three legged traditional stool where his mother smears some mixture of ash and milk on his forehead and shaves that particular area. The process is done in mabwaita and the hair is kept there alongside the stick. After that, the hair is shaved properly by men elsewhere and the graduate puts on normal clothes for the first time after a month.
What remain for the initiates is to roam from place to place in dolce far niente. They put on new suits, maybe as a sign of the new status. They don baseball caps too and go kicking girls for two weeks along the road and everywhere else till school opens. The graduates though would not talk with women or enter a house where women are for three months. Even if it rains!
You may be asking what happened to the girl initiates after we stopped singing with them. Well, I can’t attest to any other ceremonies except yatetab oret and tiletab kirokto which are similar to the males’. In fact the two ceremonies are conducted by a male blesser. Women do not have blessers of their own, they share with men.
The only difference is the security accorded to the women graduates; very tight. Any grown up man could not be allowed to get a meter close to them.
Accessorized with bangles, beads and anklets, looking chubby and ruddy, men of marrying age die to marry one of the female graduates. The ladies are so beautiful even young boys dream of marrying one, in fact many make irrational decisions and marry while still very young, to repent later in poverty.
In fact I think women are circumcised so they attract suitors. The way they are dressed after graduation is suspect.
What explains the additional security is because marrying a girl in our culture is a simple one minute affair. There is a special grass called segutiet for tying the knot that once you place on the wrist of a woman, she is henceforth your wife. (Divorcing for either party too is a one minute affair. You surprise him or her and apply cream on his cheeks and snap, you are divorced!)
So if you spot a beautiful girl and you wish to marry her, all you do is place the leaves of segutiet grass around her wrists and voila, the girl is now your wife. Try this today.
Like their male counterparts, they kick boys too as they roam about, savoring their new found status and relishing in their newfound freedom. So you better watch out if you are a man, a girl may land a kick on you anytime, and you cannot kick back, it is sanctioned by culture.
You should have seen Chemolel, Kipsang’s childhood girlfriend, I have never seen a more beautiful girl, all my life, I even toyed with the idea of marrying her even though I was uncircumcised, a record of sorts but no, she was married off the minute she stepped out of the last ceremony.
I am yet to see her again or her kind.
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