son of our culture.

Rhythmic chain-beats soothed the song,

Mulongo had been sang for a distance so long.

Half-naked, painted chalk-white,

I danced to the tune with no fright.

The processional singers led me to uncle Mukhebi,

Omukhebi was a circumcisor; often dressed in shabby.

Uncle was mama's senior brother,

but to her he hauled insults with no bother.

"Our son, don't be a cowered like women.

In our clan bravery is written on our chests as men.

Tomorrow you will face omukhebi's knife,

stand still son. Don't shame the pride of my life."

He smeared stench dang on my chest,

breathing faintly, unblinking, I stood a'rest.

Dangling in my neck was a ball of meat,

reminiscent of uncle's love since we met.

So the soloist called the tune,

jubilant villagers reiterating in a solid tone.

"HAAHO! HAHO! HAHOOO!" it could be heard from a distance,

exhausted, I danced on giving pain no chance.

The journey to manhood bad just begun,

uncle was ecstatic, stupefied, I remained stun.

Busaa had been brewed in the giant-clay pot,

with CHISESI-calabashes; villagers drunk foolishly giving me no support.

It was my circumcision eve,

uncle's eve-

deeply rooted in our culture.

Bunguswa Writes.