Last Man flees sleepover

By Makau Kitata

August holidays were fun time in primary school. Everyone thought August was a sunny month because of the school holiday. The truth is the days were cloudy and the nights chilly. But since it was mid-way between the coldest July and wettest September, when the real rains fell on the first day of school, we thought it was a special holiday.

“Grandmother’s house is the place to visit during this carefree month,” suggested Flora, my classmate and cousin.

My ten cousins and I played the entire day and assembled at Grandmother’s place in the evenings after supper for stories. There, I took charge of roasting potatoes in Grandma’s smouldering fireplace.

My older boy cousins and their friends stayed outside and made their own fire near the granary, far away from the house. Newly circumcised boys hovered around and in-between, oscillating like lost goats between the houses and the deep droning of the older boys. I heard rumours that my bigger cousins would sleep in the granary and wake up early before anyone could see them. As it turned out, no boys returned home after the parents had slept.

Our bigger sisters stayed in our parents’ houses while we, the little nuisance, were left to continue to play and sleep in Grandma’s house.

I had lately quit following Wanza, my big sister, and wanted to enjoy the company of cousins in Grandmother’s house.

“Last Man, it is your turn to tell a story,” cousin Flora challenged.

“I’ll only tell after I get a piece of the sweet potato,” I countered.

And on the boisterous session progressed – with great tolerance from Grandmother. She allowed us to poke at the arrow roots as they boiled, while sweet potatoes roasted in the hot ashes. My sister would have burned me with a flint if I tried this at home.

After Grandma had given us her late-night tea and assorted tubers, for she believed our parents never fed us enough, she retired to bed and left us to continue our revelry.

Then it was time to sleep.

“We all sleep on the big bed. Last Man, you will sleep in the middle,” announced cousin Flora.

I took my position and coiled between the girls. The one behind me threw her legs over me; the other in front started to snore. Another two jumped over the bed to pursue another under the bed. Kyalo slumped in a corner. There was not going to be any sleeping. Grandma did not care when we slept.

As Flora blew out the lamp to signal everyone to sleep, I gave out a scream. The darkness and thought of sleeping between my playful cousins terrified me.

“I want to go home,” I sniffled.

Grandmother woke up and gently urged Flora and Kyalo to escort me home. I was enjoying the night walk. I’d rather walk all night than struggle to sleep between them all night, I mused.

When I arrived home, my sister was disappointed to see me back when she thought her nights were finally peaceful.

“I thought you would stay away for once and save me your nonsense,” she protested.

“We’ll soon show you where your kind sleeps.”

I ran to my bed and tried to sleep off. I could hear my cousins laughing heartily as they made jokes about me. They were thoroughly enjoying the return walk back to Grandma’s to resume their high-spirited night play sessions. I thought of waking up and following them back but feared waking my sister.

The following week, Kiluu, my 15-year older brother – with a squint eye and giraffe’s height -marched me to Mutituni clinic and delivered me to Dr Ndaka.

“Deal with this one. I’ll be back,” he ordered, depositing me to the man, famous for transforming boys into men.

I sat on the bench as the doctor fished out a sparkling needle and syringe. He methodically tapped the spine of the syringe with his finger, bringing it up to his eye level. After squeezing a teardrop from the tip of the needle, he pulled my manhood with his gloved left hand.

I went stiff. His right hand descended for the injection. I went numb. Afterward, I felt nothing but the sound of cutting.

I tried to get into my shorts when the surgery was over.

“Take this shuka and dress Maasai-moran-style!” shouted my brother as he yanked off my shorts.

I left the clinic walking with my legs spread slightly wide, with a wrapper for clothing, and proud red spots on my khaki shorts – which I now carried in a small bag.

As I returned to the village, I knew that my sleepover days at Grandma’s were over.