Reading Ms Awerbuck's review of Thando Mgqolozana's novel, A Man Who Is Not A Man (Ritual Abuse, July 26) has left me with feelings that can only be described as being in conflict with each other. As a Xhosa man having experienced the rite therein described, my natural instinct is to defend my heritage and cry out in outrage at such sacrilege. This is something, while the antipode of my urge to applaud Mr Mgqolozana's courage in shedding light on so misunderstood a tradition, that I nevertheless am unrepentant about. Though I too have broken the vow of secrecy in one way or another in my own personal effort to demystify a tradition I cherish as one of the few remaining links to the mythology and religion of amaXhosa.
Ms Awerbuck's analysis gifted me with a certain sense of empathy which elevated my notion of the book's value in a campaign I would like to assume I share with Mr Mgqolozana. Having successfully completed my own period of “eating little” and “tending [my] small fire” with not so much as a sneeze in the middle of a somewhat sunny Eastern Cape winter, I do confess that the plight those of my fellow initiates who weren't as fortunate was completely lost on me. I was told stories of boys my age or even younger whose uncooperativeness resulted in the most horrendous of outcomes. Disobedience was not to be tolerated. It was important to remember that I knew nothing of what was to happen and therefore I should listen, watch, and repeat – to do as I was told.
I also confess that I did eat quite a lot – including an almost complete goat left over from umojiso that hung in the middle of my hut for about a week while my cousins who kept an eye on me and the extremely humourous gentleman who nursed me went to it daily and cut enourmous chunks to put on the fire for any and every mealtime. These would be consumed over raucous and unbelievable tales of days gone by, things that happened that afternoon and plans for tomorrow. Each time I was reminded that this bounty was all my doing and that I was a gracious host for inviting all there gathered in the very first household I could call my own. And this was my reward for allowing myself to be led like a small child, new and unknowing, through a world I was experiencing for the very first time.
And so arises my conflict with Mr Mgqolozana's novel. Although I am yet to read the book and believe, from what Ms Awerbuck tells about it, that it really is worth reading – especially for umXhosa such as myself – I also think that it threatens the very thing I believe pivotal to the success of my own circumcision. I would like to believe that the secrecy around the rite of circumcision is not some throwback to a world of superstition and conspiracy. To not know what awaits you beyond the moment you are led from your home, coupled with the knowledge of the gravity of tradition, transmogrifies you into a blank canvas. This is the very mindset that is encouraged in order to train out of a young recalcitrant boy, the folly and irresponsibility of youth, and imbue in him the values and tenets of manhood.
In a time when much of what is manifestly evil and horrible about society is acted out by black men, the power of such an institution and the value of its outcomes, in the instance of appropriate execution, cannot be underestimated. But the blackballing of those who are not as fortunate as myself and indeed any of the majority who do come out alive and intact, is a sign of the unfortunate application of the tradition. One, I'm ashamed to admit, that I have never stopped to consider until I read Ms Awerbuck's review.
I look forward to reading Mr Mgqolozana's book, but I hope no one that is yet to go through this rite does. And I hope the powers that be will be able to open their minds and read it too.
