The wet season swept the dusty small town of Sukuta into a
chilly wave that turned the fields and gardens of the village green and fresh.
The seasonal rain clouds, though drifted in heavy gray mist over the distant
villages have pelted rain throughout the night—penetrating from the large holes
on top of the roof—gently settling down into our beds and refusing us the
freedom to sleep for hours. School has just closed. And, nearly all the
students went back to their villages, or towns, to help their parents in the
farm as tradition dictates it to be. Stealing mangos from the neighbor’s houses
and running around the streets barefooted with my “Carr carr” (car tire) were
my ambitious and most entertaining things to do on school vacation. However,
the work at my father’s farm always keeps me busy. It’s the only time I miss
school and never wish to have a break. We work untill big bubbles formed on our
palms. Bubbles that later became hard lumps that, evidently, tells your
neighbor how poor you are when you exchange greetings. The fields my father, I
and my step brothers have to plough and cultivate seemed endless every season.
We work on our own farms, and work on the farms of others --who are lazy or
don’t have the skills for money. The money never even lasted for a week, or
enough to pay for our school fees, or get us the medicine we needed when we
fall sick. We crawled into bed each night exhausted with empty stomach that
growled, and rumbled all night, while wishing it doesn’t rain so we can have a
peaceful sleep. At 5 am one chilly morning, my father came and woke me up. “We
are going to buy clothes for Christmas” he said. I was excited, but it was so
chilly that I snapped the cotton blanket over me, and allowed the heat to wrap
itself tighter on me. “You need to get up!” he commanded. “It’s still dark outside, can’t we wait till the sun comes
out?” I replied. “No, the traffic will be busy and I might be late to work”. “But it’s only September, Christmas is 3 months ahead.” He pulled off the blanket violently, and commanded—in a more
serious voice—to alert me that he means business. “Get up now!” If anything my father hates, is to be to be out-smarted. He
felt trapped when I told him Christmas was some months ahead. He could not
think of another way to dupe me. He knew his plan was not well calculated, and
now, he is afraid to come up with another plan, thus, making me suspicious.I quickly got off bed half drunk on my sleep. I gave a teary
yawn and headed down to the dining room, then into the bathroom. My step mum
had already gathered buckets of water. In the count of three, I splashed the
chilly water over me and became fully awake; and deep down, I felt my skin
stretched and my muscles relaxed. I must admit. It’s not only the waking up
that I was afraid of, it was taking a bath in the chilly weather. My mum never wanted to boil water for us to take a bath
with. She said it makes us grow old fast. I am not sure how true that is, but,
if anything I wanted at that time was to grow old: to have my own house, car,
and family. I wanted to go to bed anytime I want, and wake up anytime I want.
To be more specific, I wanted independence. But I guess I took my mum’s
words out of context. What she meant was, our body (skin) will grow old, and
will always feel cold even if it is warm.I quickly ran inside and dried myself with one of the
blankets. I pulled out the small plastic bucket that contain my cloths and
began to search for a clean one to wear. I mixed both dirty cloths and clean
ones together. And I only care on times like this when I am about to go to a
place where I might meet my classmates. It was not like I have nice, fancy
clothes. Most of my clothes were given to me by the Charity Sisters of Mother
Therese when I went to bible studies. And, most of my clothes are very old with
a lot of patches all around them. I reach for semi clean jeans and a blue
shirt. I put them on then find nyamba (plastic shoes) under the bed. They were
the only shoes I have. I reached the lotion and gently creamed my body. The lotion was handmade by my step mum. It was a recipe of
candles, olive oil, vitamin E, and coconut oil to make it smell nice. The
smell, however, is never pleasant at first. But, as time goes on, it smells…ok.
Or maybe you just get used to it. The cream makes me shine under the sun as if
somebody broke a jar of oil on me. Even though I don’t like the cream, the fact
that it makes me shiny makes me happy. We left home with my dad holding the chicken, which he said
was going to bargain with other textile merchants. We catch a bus at the car
park; some few minutes away from our house. It took almost half an hour to get
to the bus interchange, by which time the sun has raised enough for it to be
starting to get light. We walked from the bus stop, through the many cars
parked around. My dad looks for a bus going to our destination. The bus took
between twenty to thirty minutes before it finally start moving on a dusty,
bumpy road full of buses. Then I knew we were not going for Christmas shopping.“Where are we going?” I turned and asked my dad in a nervous
tone, “You will know when we get there,” he replied in a very streak voice.
Then I knew he was not going to tell me. I sat back on my sit staring at the
bushes. The bus, thus new on the outside, has a different picture in
the inside: Old and rusty with cords hanging out from different angles.
Coughing and gagging as it shifted gears now and then on the graveled, narrow
road pockmarked with rainwater. There seemed to be nothing that would protect
the driver if he entered into slumber and the car missing its route other than
big, encroached tress that erected some few meters away from the main road. After hours of driving, the bus finally reaches to a stop.
We walked through a narrow road that led to a small village. We entered a
compound where there was a large male gathering. The sound of drums, floats,
and bottles gave a nice traditional music. Young men sing and dance around a
circle with big sticks, while others sat to get their heads bald under the sun.
I was later asked to join them and got my head bald, took bathe, and anointed
with some herbal cream before my dad and two other men lead me to a shrine with
red band tied on their foreheads.
The shrine was in a little room decorated with red blankets,
and no window. The only light comes from the door. As we entered, my nostrils
were assailed by a variety of odors: Wine, herbs and sweet fragrance of smoke
coming from a little jar pot. There were different types of animal horns.
Feathers of birds or chickens were all over the place. Faces of carved woods on
every corner; some look like they are about to smile at you, while others look
like they are angry or about to cry. Blood stains could be seen at the altar
and on the walls and on the horns. A man was sitting at a semi dark corner with
his back facing us. The men cleared their throat to acknowledge their present,
but he did not turn. He was busy talking to the gods. I sat down on a bench;
anxious and scared. I looked at my dad, but he refused eye contacts. I turned
my head to the other man on my right with my eyes revealing how scared I was.
He smile at and comforted me by rubbing my newly bald head.
The priest—without
turning to look at us—asked for my name and my dad told him. He starts speaking
to the gods saying my name over and over. Some words I understood, some I
don’t. Guess he was speaking the language of the gods. I never bothered to
catch some of the words that might sound funny, because I was more worried
about the reason am there. He requested for the chicken and my dad took it to
him with the two bottles he brought along. With a single cluck of the chicken,
its head was disconnected from its body and the blood was let to spill on the
tons of horns. Still I could hear my name repeated over and over. The last
thing he said was “this blood he gave you is to ask for your protection. You
own it to him to protect him from every evil eye, every evil wind, and every
evil mouth throughout his healing process.” He concluded. For the first time,
the priest turned around facing us with a sharp blade on his hand. He has a small dry body, not skinny, but also not fat. A few wrinkles around the
eyes, light yellow teeth, onion-like breath, thick grey mustache, thick long
eyebrows, some hair coming out from his nostrils, sweaty hands, tired eyelids,
and a dry sagging skin on the cheeks. He was dress all red and look like the
guys in the vampire movies. He ordered I be stripped and place on the ground. I
began to cry, but he shushed me with the blade on his mouth to be quite. I did
as he directed for I was really scared. Slowly, I was placed down with my eyes
fixed at the knife and his scary face.
They held my legs and hands. They need not hold my mouth for
the drums, the clapping and singing can serve as a sound proof to the others
who are yet to know what was going on. I kicked, stretched, wrinkled, and
crumpled all I could, but could not be free from their strong grip. My head was
held to the direction of the ceiling. My hands rapped behind my back. My legs
outstretched to its maximum angle. I look at my Father for clemency, for
refuge, but he only smile and turned his face away. Then thought of regret and
hatred circulate me. My heart was pumping that I could hear the sound on my
head. My soul was like its flooding out of my body. Confuse and helpless, I
stayed still wishing my mother never left me. Wishing I was not born in this
culture.I felt the priest dry fingers pushing and pulling to get a
correct grip of the foreskin. He held it tight and waited for some seconds as
if not sure what to do next. Then, I felt the blade placed on my foreskin.
There was another pause. Then I felt my foreskin parting from my body. The pain
ran from my legs to my head. I tried to scream, but could not. The energy was
drained out of me and my whole body was weak, and felt as if I was suffocating.
My face tighten up, my lips dry, and my body incapable of functioning. I could
no longer hear or see anything. All idea of time left me. I could not even
contract my muscles. A dreadful pain in my left temple. Something’s wrong with
my eyes. My vision blurs in and out of focus as I tried to make sense of the two staring at me. I start to feel dizzy. Tears filled my eyes,
blinked them, and they came rolling on my face, then to my ears making a
thunderous sound. I closed my eyes and let my heart open up to the spirit of
pain. It came running all over my body like an electrical shockwave. I felt
cold and warm at the same time. A fly came and settled on my nose, and a hand fan
it off. My eyes shut, and I became tranquil. Unhurriedly, they let me lie down on the
ground, while the priest performed his last ritual
watch out for the book (The Course from My Mother) coming out soon.
