The Abakhwetha
I can’t tell the details. It is not a secret society thing. It’s being able to keep your own counsel. A man doesn’t share the knowledge, unless it’s with a man that has gone through the same initiation. It makes the young men afraid to go to the bush. Sometimes you meet men that grootpraat, order women around, call young boys ‘abakhwetha’. Those with self-respect, that deserve to be called ‘Bhuti’, don’t. On the other hand, boys should be afraid; it is a mystery, an honour. When you are not afraid of childish superstitions, of stepping into the unknown, you are ready to take the step. You get people trying to catch you out, pretending they’ve been to the bush to see if you will break your vow. After you have been, you continue learning a man’s language. You pick up if somebody cheats. It’s like a jargon. It excludes and binds. If you divulge the secrets, you will be punished. That’s why family is important. They, with the elders, are allowed to use a kierie on you. The responsibilities of being a man include guiding others to become a better man. Some young men want the rights of a man without the consequences. They have not taken in what the elders have said. It has helped me to come to know myself. I am not always the better man, but now I know when I am less.
I grew up in a children’s home. My foster parents are white and English- speaking. I tracked down my relatives and decided to find my roots by examining this side of my heritage. My aunts and uncles decided I was eligible for initiation. I cannot speak isiXhosa. I suppose my view of the experience is necessarily more objective than those of young men that grew up within the culture. I certainly remained an outsider throughout. I mean, everybody is afraid of the unknown, but the others could speculate among themselves about what was about to happen. They were also suspicious of me, and accused me of being a spy or a Zulu.
The physical hardships matter. If you have nothing except a blanket, you need to know who you are. The ancestors will bless your upbringing, marriage work, if you have earned your manhood. The kierie is a symbol. Also the weapon with which to sort out differences in the bush. They train you to use it. Any bobbejaan can get himself one, but he gives himself away. When you go back to the bush to visit, you take your kierie with you if you are young, like a ticket. The elders don’t have to. Before you can go, there are meetings with the elders. The gogos also. They decide whether it’s right for you at that time. Then the tatas decide how and where. It is usually in winter. The bacteria that cause infection are less active then. The bhutis get the sacred animal of the tribe. They arrange for a wise surgeon to do the circumcision. A lot of guys pretend to be trained in this, so the elders take care. Then the men meet alone. You have to give all your clothes away. I had a new pair of Levis. That was hard. But a man can let things go and start again. They cut off your hair, pray, sing and paint your body and face white. They wrap you in your special blanket, cover your head, and lead you. You cannot see where you go. This is partly that you cannot run away when things go wrong in the bush, and partly to teach you to step with courage through a new door. There are many traditions about this stage. Also joking about sharpening the blades; and reassurance and moral support. One is not allowed to eat or drink for some time. Then one gets special food: very dry samp and beans with no salt. One cannot go out of the place. A little boy delivers the food and water. He calls. He may not come in. After one month one drinks a lot of water. And fruit. The oranges were so good.
Then comes the celebration. Men and women do not drink together. Female relatives can ask to visit you. The doctor and elders decide. There’s a lot of meat and mqombothi, some made from itolofia and some from mabela. The way you hold the calabash is a sign of whether you are a man.
We thank the ancestors. We thank God.
I can say I am a man: Ndiyindoda!
