The closure of schools in Murima signals the beginning of the intitation season for the youth. Young boys who still call their mothers mummy in public will soon be facing destiny armed with courage, blankets, and an army of aunties making tea and mountains of mukimo.
Things, however, have changed. Back in the day, the road to manhood was a full-blown village jamboree. The boys would spend a week stomping around, singing ribald songs that made maidens blush and elders turn the other way. Then, at dawn, they’d head to the river, where a skilled “surgeon”, usually an elder with dexterous hands, would transform them from boys to men in minutes. After that came seclusion -a sacred period of learning how to slaughter a goat, woo a girl, behave like a man and other social graces.
In our time, though, things had gone solo. Right after Class Eight exams, each boy would sneak to the local doktari for his private appointment with the scalpel. The seclusion was lonely too -just you, your pain, and a few loyal friends who came to play draughts and blast music from a homemade woofer built from an old radio and a pot. The only thing we looked forward to was the month long fattening by our mothers from endless meals of pounded njahi and bananas.
Now Murima has entered a new phase; initiation has become an organized group activity again. Only this time, it’s being run by either church leaders or cultural elders. Posters are everywhere: “Give us the boy, we give you the man!” The boys go as a troop, armed with Bibles or traditional staffs, depending on who’s hosting.
Of course, this has sparked a fierce war between the elders and the church. The elders insist that initiation is their sacred domain. “Let the pastors stick to preaching heaven and hell!” they bark. The pastors counter that the rite is a golden chance to teach “Christian manhood” and insist that in their events there is no muratina, bawdy songs or other demonic things.
And right in the middle of this cultural earthquake are my Uncle and Aunty Jerusha. As you know, Uncle is an unrepentant traditionalist who believes every man should be initiated the old Gikuyu way. Aunty Jerusha, on the other hand, is a fire-breathing born again Christian who sprinkles holy water on everything, from her chapati dough to grandchildren.
So when their grandson finished exams and came home asking for blessings to be “cut,” World War III broke out. “My child,” Uncle said, his grandfather mojo on overdrive, “the elders have arranged everything. You will be cut the proper Gikuyu way!”
“Hakuna,” Auntie Jerusha shot back. “Our church is organizing a safe, holy ceremony for Christian boys. Even our Bishop will be there, hallelujah!’’ The poor boy went silent for days, torn between tradition and salvation. Then one morning, he made his decision.
“Actually,” he said, grabbing his backpack, “ChatGPT says most world leaders haven’t even been cut.’’ He then hailed a boda and hopped onto a matatu back to the city, leaving his two stunned grandparents wondering where they went wrong.
It might take a while before Uncle and Aunty Jerusha figure out who or what this ChatGPT fellow is.