Rite of passage

My son is going to hate me for writing about this, but yesterday he finally entered manhood by having his, er, final cut. It was a little early, in my opinion: he’s only 11 and entering sixth grade, and back in my day us boys didn’t get circumcised until we were about 12 and entering first year of high school. But apparently all his classmates were getting circumcised this summer, so to save him from being teased endlessly we scheduled him for his rite of passage. Before his day or reckoning I told him the story my father told me about his circumcision: it was done by the neighborhood barber, using a labaha that he sharpened with a piece of leather.

The tuli was done in groups, with the boys lining up before the barber squatted on the ground. There was no anesthetic, and the boys were made to chew on some guava leaves that they would place on the wound as a disinfectant. The labaha was positioned on top of the thingie, which itself was propped up on a guava branch; the barber then hit the labaha with a block of wood, splitting the skin in two. The braver of the boys spat out the chewed guava leaves and put it on the wound, while the lesser ones swallowed the lot. After that the boy-men would be made to run around the neighborhood and then, finally, jump into the river. The boys went home clad in saya, and the tradition was that they would be given all the nice food they wanted while healing.

That was a far cry from how tuli is done now (and during my time), I told my son, when all a boy has to do was enter a clinic, lie down, feel a slight pinch from the hypodermic needle injecting anesthetic, and wait. The worst part is no longer the actual circumcision but what comes afterwards, when the wound heals, and even for that there are medicines to make the process easier and faster. Our helper, however, startled us when she said her husband was the one who circumcised their only son: he used a blade (which he apparently didn’t even sterilize) and simply sliced the foreskin. No anesthetic, no cauterizing, no nothing – just like in the old days.

See, I told my son, you’re so much better off. All this, however, did little to assuage his fears, so much so that it had to take two trips to the doctor to get the whole thing done, the first one having been botched by all the squirming he did. I guess it’s natural: I’ve been to a few operation tuli programs and have seen big boys running away out of fear. I’m just glad it’s all over for my boy, and the worst part – the actual healing – is already on its way.