Circumcision Ceremony

Its tradition to 'give alms' with the seasons first cut of "marro farrow," field rice, so several bowls of rice brought an array of people from other compounds over to share breakfast. It just happens to fall on lumo/market day, which guaranteed a timely meal before everyone's departure for the weekly market. With the holiday only a week out, I gave Tijane my 15 mille (about 30$) Tabaski contribution to go towards our sheep (to be slaughtered).

I told my family that the Diaobe market was not the place for me because bandits, thieves, and anyone with the last name Mballo (corny local joke) are on the prowl for easy targets. It got a good laugh. Instead, I joined my sister Aminata in Sare Kallilou, just a 20 minute walk past our new school house and the farrow, for the traditional circumcision ceremony. A storm came late last night, leaving the lowlands flooded and the tall grass battered across the narrow path. My eyes could only leave the path when Aminata paused with her flip flop stuck in the mud. One nice thing about a regular well-beaten path is the freedom to let your eyes wander in every direction.


We were welcomed by another rice breakfast, but this time with a peanut sauce much tastier than my familys. People gathered rather quickly. Women came out in their flowing 'completes' and a few of them even had coins, shells, candy and bells added into their braids. They say it doesnt hurt to sleep on, but I dont believe them.

The ceremony started with a pair of drummers and a familiar cadence fading as they walked out of the village to meet the legion of recently circumcised boys in the woods. And then came the opportunity for my questions. The boys, all around 8 years old, were circumcised a month ago and have since only been in the company of each other and their fathers. During the day they ask for money on the roadside, are served meals by the men instead of they nenee/moms, and only return to the village to sleep.
Today, 6 boys were washed and dressed in new clothes and then paraded back into village with all of the men, drummers, and a finishline of welcoming women. They started a dance circle at the Jarga/Chief's hut and then moved through the village. The boys sat in a row, still draped in pagne/skirts and head wraps, with palms welcoming small shiny gifts. American change is going to feel like play money next to these weighted coins, all more robust than the quarter. I paid my repects and did my dance that everyone seems to love, though the reason is unclear.
People slowly broke for their houses as the parade marched on. The women started lunch preparations, fetched fuel wood, pounded rice until free from the sheath, and battled flies while mincing a bowl of beef, now tinted gray with a pungent that curled my lip. All afternoon was spent in the shade of a small mango tree with attaya and grilled feed-corn. Oily rice is quite a treat and a must at ceremonies, but just another reason I dont like them much.
One last note must be added on this topic. The "Kankouran," a costumed man believed to ward off evil spirits that threaten the boys, appears in my  Casamance region annually as part of the ceremony. As seen, he is dressed in deep red tree bark from head to toe and carries a machete in each hand, a scary site and an annoyance to main road travelers. Its just another part of the tradition to celebrate the boys' passage into manhood.