A Fool's Knot Read Online Free PDF

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 condemnation. 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