The small wooden church in Migwani stood only a few yards away from the cluster of mud-walled shops that constituted the town. The newly built mission house to the side of the church was a fine place indeed, built of cement blocks and corrugated iron. Just beyond the compound, just beyond the euphorbia hedge which defined its boundaries, there grew a large straight tree of such an age that even the old men remembered it the same. It was to this tree that the boys and girls would come.
Father John O’Hara knew when he bought the land that it bordered the holiest place in Migwani. Indeed that was one of the reasons why he decided to build his new church here, so that it might be a constant reminder of his teaching to those who walked near the tree. He disapproved of traditional ways, but did not criticise those who believed in them. His goal was to incorporate the fervour and devotion of those traditions into a new allegiance with his own church. This is why he had built on this site as an expression of coexistence, not domination.
As the sun sank low in the west, the giant silhouette of Mount Kenya thrust through the heat haze into rain-cleansed air. Earlier that day he had heard the sound of horns and drums from the valley. By then he had grown quite used to what they meant and in fact looked forward to the day each year when the boys and girls of the area came running to the giant tree near the mission.
First came the boys in a long, noisy winding snake, those forming the head deadly serious and competing, whilst in contrast the body ambled a little, accompanied by shouting and laughter. On hearing them, Father John left his chair and walked to the entrance to the mission compound, where he would greet them as they passed. He would keep his distance, but not because his presence was in any way resented. It was his own respect that intervened.
By the time the men arrived, most of the boys had recovered from their run. And it was half an hour before the girls and women arrived together, as a group. Men and women then formed a large circle around the tree and began to sing. The men sang of the skill of hunters, the valour of warriors and the need for all men to have a son who could carry their name. The women sang of marriage, of faithful and true husbands and the joys of bearing children. With friends and relatives in full voice around them, the boys climbed the tree to pluck off and throw down small twigs, which would be used at first light the next morning to indicate that the time for washing had arrived. The girls waited below to collect and bundle the wood. Eager to collect as much as they could, a minor scuffle broke out as each piece of wood fell to the ground as each girl tried to grab it for her own bundle. At some point during the long rains the ceremony would be mirrored in every centre, large or small, throughout the lands of the Akamba.
With enough wood collected and all songs sung, the procession set off as one. Boys, girls, women and men walked slowly together for the final initiation feast at the house of Musyoka son of Mwangangi. Only Musyoka’s own son, Mwangangi, lagged behind. Troubled by something on his leg, he seemed to be trying to keep pace with the rest, pause to rub his leg and deliberately lag behind all in one. Then he stopped and sat, so that he could inspect the back of his calf. He then rose again to hobble towards the group, only to begin the process again with another pause. After a couple more minutes, he gave up his pursuit and hobbled back to the mission.
“Father John?” he said timidly, knocking lightly on the door.
O’Hara peered out from the dim interior, but he had already recognised the voice. “Come in! Come in, Mwangangi,” he said warmly. “What is it that you want? Shouldn’t you be with the others? I thought you would be well on your way by now.”
“Father, I have cut my leg on a thorn up in the tree and it is bleeding. Can you look at it?”
O’Hara inspected the wound which looked bad, but when he cleaned it he could see clearly that it was just a long scratch. It had bled quite freely, however, so first he cleaned everything with cotton wool and some iodine, and then took a bandage from his first-aid box to dress it.
Suddenly Mwangangi drew away, as if he had just been reminded he was doing wrong. “What about the bandage?” asked the priest, slightly puzzled.
“I think it will be all right now,” said Mwangangi. “I must go.”
With that he turned and set off towards the door. Before he had taken a single step, however, he stopped again and turned. “Father, is it still good for my baptism on Sunday? Now that I am a man and not a boy…”
“You are welcome in God’s house at any time, Mwangangi.”
“That is good,” said the boy, a relieved wide smile spreading over his face. “Thank you, Father,” he said and then left.
Father John’s gaze followed him through the fast fading light as he walked towards the valley. Shaking his head he turned back into the room saying, “What a shameful and barbaric custom it is.”
Just before first light the next morning, Musyoka’s first wife, Mwangangi’s mother, lit the pile of wood collected from the sacred tree. The party at last was over and everyone was silent. As the sky turned to the cold grey of half-light, the girls and boys with Mwangangi amongst them set off together for the last time to make their way slowly, reverently, even solemnly to the river bed. Though the rains this year had been poor, the river had not yet run dry and this was seen as a good omen. With a slow chant that bade farewell to childhood, the initiates parted on reaching the riverbank, men and boys going one way and girls and women the other, the latter, of course, downstream. The two groups would wash separately and, from that morning, as groups would remain apart for the rest of their lives. Until that day, they could intermingle, share beds, and even touch one another, but now as adults they must live by another code. Though many would eventually marry, never again would boys be admitted to these girl’s meetings and never again would one of these girls follow a hunting party, not even to carry a calabash of beer for the men.
Fathers now accompanied sons and mothers accompanied daughters to their segregated washing areas. All that remained of the ceremony after the washing was the circumcision itself. Both boys and girls were now afraid, but, as required by their custom, they showed no emotion. They had been taught to look forward to this moment with a mixture of joy and awe. They must be happy for their re-birth into adulthood is at hand, and yet afraid because the innocence of childhood is set behind them and they must learn to shoulder full adult responsibilities towards their families, their community and their ancestors. The same was true for each boy and girl. When the moment of pain came, when they sat on the ground with their legs held apart, intertwined with those of their parents, the knife would cut as quickly and as cleanly as possible. The child should not cry, should not even wince, should not strain against the embrace. The children should do nothing, save for whispering thanks to their forefathers for guiding them safely towards adulthood. Then they would walk to rest on a bed of fresh green leaves, where mothers and fathers would come to dress the wounds with axe-water, herbs and milk. And so the process started. The washing began.
As Mwangangi stepped down from the riverbank, his whole body shuddered. Water had never seemed so cold. He sat down in the water and began to wash all over. Then, unexpectedly, his father called him. Mwangangi was not sure what to do. Musyoka called again, louder and more sternly. Reluctantly the boy left the water and rejoined his father on the bank. His father was suddenly angry, terribly angry, angry in a way the boy had never known a man could be. He said not a single word, but there was condemnation in his eyes. He then bent down in front of his son and took hold of the boy’s leg with an iron grip. For as long as a minute he squeezed and rubbed the boy’s flesh as he inspected the neat line of crisp scab which snaked up the back of his calf. Musyoka rubbed and scratched at the pale red stain that was clearly visible around the entire wound. Mwangangi’s heart sank as his father stood and stared scornfully into his son’s eyes. For some time they stood, apparently locked in one another’s stare. In Mwangangi’s eyes there were questions, in his father’s condemnat
ion. Then he hit him, hard across the face. It was in full view of everyone assembled there, but no one spoke. No one intervened. And with that, Musyoka turned his back on his son and walked slowly, dejectedly back towards his homestead. Mwangangi was hurt, not physically, but still deeply hurt and ashamed as he returned to the river and continued to wash.
One hour later his turn had come and he sat on the ground. Behind him, facing the same way, sat a man whose arms embraced him firmly and whose legs intertwined with and held apart his own. Mwangangi was not afraid. It would soon be over and he was proud. Then, dancing and chanting, came the doctor. Mwangangi looked at his father, but the figure now dressed in goatskins, beads and feathers showed no recognition. The boy struggled and cried as he was circumcised. It was meant to be fast, with the cut made cleanly and quickly, not this slow agonising tear. The boy struggled and cried again as the pain grew worse. And then he fainted.
When he awoke with a start his mother bent low over him and offered comfort. He was glad to see her, to feel her hand on his arm when he closed his eyes, to spread cold, thick milk on the wound, which still gave him such pain, to lull him to sleep.
Outside, the day had aged to late afternoon. Musyoka sat on a tree stump by his hut, whittling away at a stick with an old army knife. He had spoken to no one since the morning and had sat like this locked in thought, unable to acknowledge even the presence of another. When people had left his home that morning, giving thanks for the new manhood of their sons, they had talked and argued with one another. Some were ignorant and spoke of Mwangangi’s shame and of how his cries of pain meant that he would abuse the office of doctor, and should never succeed his father. Others, who were wiser, had seen what had happened, and spoke of their fear for Musyoka and their disbelief at what he had done. Had the knife he used not been old, dirty, rusty and blunt? Had he not deliberately sheathed the sharpened knife before treating his son? Did he not gnaw and tear at the foreskin, instead of slicing it with one long cut? And had he also not cut the boy’s legs? It was very confusing indeed and a matter upon which only God could now give judgment. This must be a test of Mwangangi’s right to succeed his father. The ancestors must have been offended, because the boy’s screams had been long and loud. Only they, the ancestors, could now decide what must be done. If the wound was infected and the boy’s body poisoned, then God had made his judgment and the boy would die. If it were to heal, and thus return the boy to strength and confirmed adulthood, then God would have made his judgment, and once again Musyoka would embrace Mwangangi as his son and heir.
Only Musyoka knew the reality. The boy had let blood during the ceremony and had not immediately begged his father to clean the wound and cast out the spirits, which thereby had entered the body. Worse than that, he had tried to hide that special wound behind a white man’s hand holding white man’s medicine. Only Musyoka knew the reality. He had used a blunted, broken knife which the boy, himself, had last used to cut euphorbia from the hedgerows. The scratch had healed. It had been too late to say prayers, so the boy must die or soon the curse his body surely now protected would infect his whole family, clan and people, and that would be a dark day indeed for the people of Migwani. His knife tore another shaving off the stick. It fell onto a pile of others on the ground by his feet. It, along with the rest, would be gathered up later and burned on the fire. The stick in his hand would be oiled and cared for by his wife and become the trusted tool that she would use to grind maize to flour. The shavings, the discarded waste, helped to make the stick strong and true. This was the way of the world.
Father John had heard the gossip. The town, the market and the church were full of stories and conflicting reports of Mwangangi’s pain. Some said he was paralysed and lay poisoned and dying in his father’s home. Others claimed he had died under the knife, that his screams had stopped before the job was done and that his life had passed along the paths to his forefathers.
John believed all of the stories and yet none of them. He must see and know for himself. The path down the valley was rugged and steep. In places even walking was tricky and John’s motorcycle slithered and skidded on dust and stones alike. When he switched off the engine, the Musyoka household was quiet. Musyoka, seated with his knife and stick offered him neither greeting nor even recognition.
The hours that followed were confused. Musyoka said nothing to Mwangangi or to John, and not much to anyone else. He was morose and withdrawn, even with other members of his family. Though she knew and trusted Father John, Mwangangi’s mother could not allow him to be taken to hospital. Repeatedly she approached her husband and asked his advice, but stolidly, sternly, he refused to speak. Father John was willing to wait no longer. Sometimes helping, sometimes maybe obstructing, Mwangangi’s mother watched as John O’Hara seated the boy on the motorcycle pillion. Father John shouted at her, telling her to be quiet and help him to harness the boy to his own body with a length of rope.
It was three in the morning when Sister came back to the convent in Muthale. “Well, Father John,” she began with a deep sigh, “I think you’ve saved him.” His eyes closed in a silent prayer. “The blood poisoning has not gone too far and we can treat it, so that should clear up. He has more than one wound. It was no accident, that’s for sure. They are all messy and they will scar. They will take a while, but they will heal. The blood poisoning would have killed him.”
Father John and the other nuns in the room each gave out their own sigh of relief. “Sister, when I go home on leave I’ll go to Kerry and tell them down there that your hospital is working miracles.”
“Tell them no such thing, Father,” she said. Sister had battled against prejudice, bureaucracy and sometimes her own will to finance and build the small brick-built hospital, but she wanted no credit for herself. She began to scoff at him, saying, “You can tell them that with hard work, sweat and the Grace of God we’re saving lives. And that’s enough.” With that, the vitriolic woman known for her boundless energy and quick temper, retired to her room to pray and offer thanks for another life saved before taking her rest.
Chapter Five
January 1975
The bus from Nairobi growled to a halt in the town, raising a cloud of dust high above the tin-roofed shops around the marketplace. With the usual blasts on the horn, it had sped between the two lines of concrete buildings which constitute Migwani market, before a screech of tyres had brought it to a halt opposite the Safari Bar, where travellers would always congregate to await its arrival. Scenes that followed were the same every day. Beers would be finished in a hurry as the rush to get on the bus began. Women who had sat all day next to their piles of fruit and vegetables in the marketplace would hoist their loads on their backs and, screening their eyes from the dust whirls cast up by the braking bus, would rush to the door in a mad scramble to be first to get on. No one ever did manage to get straight on the bus, because the man who sold the tickets always stood on the steps to bar the way. But it was the same every day. On Fridays, about half of the hopeful travellers might not even manage to get on the bus at all, and others, who did manage to secure the few square inches of space needed to be squeezed into the aisle, would later be ejected since they had not sold enough of their wares to fund the two-shilling ride home. With dignity offended, they would set off defiantly on foot to walk the five or possibly ten miles home. And all this took time, so some of them would already be half a mile along the road by the time the bus, having renewed its journey and, packed to the rafters, passed by on its way north. These ejected and thus rejected women, of course, would shout their obscene abuse at the driver and his companion as it passed.
Amidst this confusion, slickly dressed young men in Western clothes, with beer swilling in their ever ampler bellies, would run out from the Safari on the corner shouting, “Ngoja! Ngoja! Wait! Wait!” They would always pay the fare and always find a seat. If there was none, they expected an old man or woman or, more usually, a child to vacate their own to
make room. If, by some strange chance, their pockets were empty when the conductor came round, they would make some empty promise about paying for the journey the following day at the bus company’s office in Mwingi. The conductor might look deeply perturbed and might even issue a warning about what might happen if they defaulted, but he would probably not dare to question their word and certainly would never suggest they get off and walk.
Then, with sacks of grain, chickens and goats loaded into the vast luggage box on top, a shout of “Twende! Let’s go!” would come from the loaders, who would still be trying to negotiate their way down from the roof. There would be a shattering clank from the gearbox and an indeterminate groan or two from some or other moving part as the driver’s foot pushed the throttle to the floor and more clouds of dust started to fly. Someone would also have checked that the town’s madman, Munyasya, had not tried to prevent further progress by lying down under the wheels, which he often did, requiring the bus to engage reverse for a few metres before manoeuvring around him.
As the abuse started from the walking women, the two young men, who had loaded the freight onto the roof, would swing themselves into the bus from the external ladders welded by the entrance. Ten minutes later, when the dust had settled and the noise of the engines had drifted on past Kyome rock, the town would again be quiet, its dose of madness over for another day, with time again moving slowly, as it had done for as long as anyone might choose to remember.
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