There is something about Mashujaa Day that makes it special-the tipping point of the year. It’s the unofficial reminder that if you set a goal for this year and haven’t moved an inch, wait for January. If you swore you’d get married this year and you’re still single, well, just tell your mum to calm down – next year, maybe. If you wanted to build that dream home but are still housed in Plot 10, my friend, go ahead and eat that money. 2025 will figure itself out.
For yours truly, Mashujaa Day kicks off an active season of my illustrious side hustle: dowry negotiations. Starting from now until late December, I’ll be decked out in my trusty godfather hat and brown leather jacket every Saturday, officiating ruracio negotiations. It’s not bad for extra income, especially in a year that has been particularly tough.
Also, during this period, boys will be lining up in hospitals for a brief surgical procedure that will transform them into ‘men’. But before they face the cut, our tradition demands they visit their eldest maternal uncle to seek ‘permission’. Why the maternal uncle, you ask? Simple. It’s a nod to our ancestral past where maternal uncles played crucial role in a child’s life. Nowadays, of course, dads rule, but we let this treasured tradition live.
My experience back in the day when I went to seek permission to become a man can be summed up in one word: chaos. It was an election year, and the heady feel of freedom hung in the air. My mum, being the efficient woman she was, sent me to Nairobi through a bus to get that all-important “permission” from my uncle, squeezed between sacks of waru. After I arrived in the city of many lights, I was passed from one trusted relative to the other, until I came to my uncle’s place.
My city cousins hadn’t seen their dad for days, and when he finally staggered home, he was singing militant anti-KANU songs. Then he disappeared again. Days turned into weeks. After which, one night, he appeared home with several men. They talked excitedly in the sitting room, warming their tummies with a bottle of Popov Vodka. Their voices rumbled like deep political earthquakes, frequently mentioning Matiba, Rubia, and Ford.
Once again, I didn’t see my elusive uncle for days. I reconciled myself with the fate of spending another year while still a ‘boy’- a very derisive word in Kikuyu lexicon. After two full weeks of my uncle’s disappearing acts, I’d had enough. One morning, I approached my auntie. “Can I just get permission from you?” I pleaded. She must have found my desperation amusing because, that very evening, she whispered something into uncle’s ear, and just like that, I got the coveted permission. Next morning, I found myself in Murang’a town at the hands of Dr. Poppat, a dexterous mhindi surgeon who turned boys into men in 30 minutes flat.
If you’re an uncle out there tasked with giving your nephews this sacred permission, be kind. Don’t put them through a month long hide-and-seek game like my uncle did to me. These kids are already surviving a chaotic world – they’ve seen enough.
Happy Mashujaa to all of you.