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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 Musyokaâs 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.
âFather John?â he said timidly, knocking lightly on the door.
OâHara peered out from the dim interior, but he had already recognised the voice. âCome in! Come in, Mwangangi,â he said warmly. âWhat is it that you want? Shouldnât you be with the others? I thought you would be well on your way by now.â
âFather, I have cut my leg on a thorn up in the tree and it is bleeding. Can you look at it?â
OâHara 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. âWhat about the bandage?â asked the priest, slightly puzzled.
âI think it will be all right now,â said Mwangangi. âI must go.â
With that he turned and set off towards the door. Before he had taken a single step, however, he stopped again and turned. âFather, is it still good for my baptism on Sunday? Now that I am a man and not a boyâ¦â
âYou are welcome in Godâs house at any time, Mwangangi.â
âThat is good,â said the boy, a relieved wide smile spreading over his face. âThank you, Father,â he said and then left.
Father Johnâs gaze followed him through the fast fading light as he walked towards the valley. Shaking his head he turned back into the room saying, âWhat a shameful and barbaric custom it is.â
Just before first light the next morning, Musyokaâs first wife, Mwangangiâs 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