A man who is not a man

Told in the first person, the narrative traces a young man’s journey to manhood. Raised in Gugulethu, Lumkile returns to his ancestral village to become a man. But the true test of his character will come when society and his elders woefully fail him.

Mgqolozana relates his tale of a botched circumcision in all its complexity. There are no simple rights and wrongs, no simple solutions, but Mgqolozana sheds much needed light on the whole practice of initiation as it struggles to stay relevant in our fast changing world. Although it is a novel, there has never been a more insightful and thorough look at the circumcision practice in the Eastern Cape. It is a book that truly needs to be widely read.

Extract

‘Is something the matter, mfana?’ asked the first-grade-teacher voice that had earlier intruded on my sleep. I had been dreaming about the five remaining stones at my hut. I looked confusedly in the direction of the voice, which was coming from above me, and saw not the weathered visage of my teacher, but the smooth and beautiful face of an angel. The face belonged to a nurse in a white uniform with maroon epaulettes. She had a gold necklace draped around her neck and a name badge pinned to her right breast pocket. Her relaxed hair was pushed back from her face and tied into a pony tail at the back.

‘Is something the matter, mfana? Do you need something?’ the nurse asked me softly again. She glanced in the direction of the other patients in the ward, who seemed to be asleep, then brought her attention back to me, widening her eye whites enquiringly.

‘No … ‘ I said. I was still a little confused. Maybe I was hoping that all of this was part of the dream I had been having, from which I would suddenly wake up for real. As the seconds ticked away, it became clear that I was not dreaming. I was a patient, admitted in a hospital.

The nurse reached up to check the half-full saline bag hanging over me. She turned it, observing the rhythm of the tiny drops that dripped from it lazily. I realised that the saline bag was inserted into my wrist. I imagined I felt each tiny drop entering my blood vessel and travelling up my arm to my shoulder, where it disappeared.

‘Well … I will let you sleep, then,’ said the nurse.

She pulled the panic button out from under my pillow and hung it on the wall above my head. Then she patted my bed and walked away towards the mouth of the ward. I watched her as she checked briefly on the other patients. She switched the overhead light off and walked out without looking back. The chest people beat faster and harder as sober reality drifted in. I pulled my pillow up and adjusted it so that I had a full view of the ward. The lights in the corridor provided enough illumination for me to see by. I looked at the window on my right and saw darkness behind the blinds, telling me it was still night time.

I allowed my eyes to browse through the ward. There were three beds on each side. Each bed was framed by curtains which could be drawn around the bed when needed. At the bottom of the beds were those adjustable trolley tables, where they put the patient folders. I was in the corner bed on the side furthest from the mouth of the ward. The ward, the beds, the linen, everything was engulfed in whiteness.

I noticed that the two patients on my left had covered their heads with the white hospital blankets. The bed directly opposite me was vacant but the two next to it also had patients in them. They were asleep, it seemed, and the light had not disturbed them. They both lay on their backs, knees drawn up, in the position in which initiates must sit at the mountain, knees up all the time. I realised that the two patients must be in a similar situation to me. At the thought of my situation, the chest people started to thud faster again. I recalled my arrival here.

It must have been about eight o’clock when my grandfather and I walked into the brightly lit foyer. I had my white blanket draped around me and my face was still smeared in white clay. My eyes must have been bloodshot because I hadn’t slept for the past three days and nights. Grandfather was wearing his usual blue overall coat. His hands were clasped behind him, one on top of the other, in the way he holds them when he is angry about something. His lips were shaking and the watery eyes narrowed, as if to avoid seeing what was to happen next. I hung back as we walked into the brightness of the hospital. I was no longer used to the glare of electric light. On the mountain, I had had only a tiny handmade lamp that gave off no more light than a candle.

I lagged behind grandfather as we walked into the waiting area. At this hour, it was fortunately empty. Dozens of maroon chairs stood vacant on our left. Dozens of wheelchairs were parked against the wall on our right. The distance that we walked was probably no more than fifteen metres from the van that had brought us, but I missed my stick even so. In the three days and nights that I had spent on the mountain, I hadn’t once stood up straight. If I wasn’t sitting then I was kneeling, or standing half-bent, balanced against my stick, inventing tactics to endure the agonising pain. Now, suddenly I had to walk upright. The blanket was giving me problems as well. The only time it had had any real use was when I was first brought to the mountain. Then, I was grateful to be covered in it, since it helped to conceal the amount of pain I was in. At the hut, it had served as my sofa, since we weren’t allowed to lie down and sleep. Now it felt cumbersome, draped around me awkwardly while I was trying to hold myself upright. I gave up on walking erect and stayed bent over, like a 114-year-old grandfather. My own grandfather glanced at me with an I-have-a-good-mind-to-boot-you-in-the-ribs look as he walked towards the nurse at Enquiries. I sat down on one of the maroon chairs, resolving to keep my eyes cast down. I was ashamed of my situation and I wished everybody could understand that I wasn’t there by choice.

‘Good evening, tata,’ said the nurse from across the counter.

‘Evening, mntanam,’ grandfather replied.

‘I can see you have brought the boy.’

‘Hmm … yes, mntanam. It is like that … ‘

There was no describing that ‘hmm’ of his. It conveyed all the anger and defeat he felt at having to hand over his grandson.

‘Alright, tata,’ the nurse said. I dropped my eyes as soon as she switched her attention to me. I wasn’t ready to answer questions about what had brought me there. Not in front of everyone. Especially not grandfather. No. There was silence.

A man who is not a man is by Thando Mgqolozana. You can follow him on Twitter @thandomgqo

ISBN 978 1 694 176 9
188 pages
Review written by Brent Meersman for GroundUp.