Initiation
We taxi on motorcycles to the outskirts of Nampula. Our city drivers can barely find their way through this neighborhood. Pavement runs out by a large market and we pass a psychiatric hospital on a dirt path that seems more like a motocross course. Dirt then gives way to loose sand. A black plastic pipe runs down the middle of the path, half burried in the sandy road. It has burst at one point along the way and children are filling bowls of water with the leaking spray. Dwellings are a cross between houses and huts. An intriguing and beautiful crossover of city and village living. I see women carrying water. Laundry is in the yard and on the fences, not protected behind gates and bars. The path looks more like a trail now as we steeply descend further, deeper into the neighborhood.
I am welcomed into the house upon arrival to be dressed by the women. A mixture of friends and relatives who all call each other "sister" tie my skirt and wrap my head. We get photos taken like it is prom night. A short walk takes us to the event. Tents fashioned from tarps, fabrics, and scraps adorn the yard. At least 50 adults and easily twice as many children are filtering into the yard as the morning heat is beginning to swell.
The pots are on the outdoor stoves, bubbling with food for the masses. Charcoal and wooden paddles are all that are needed to expertly manage rice, shima, and karakata for over 100 mouths. I see my skirt on the women, the men, and the children. I may be white, but we have a sameness today. I am an honored guest not because of my skin, but because of my skirt. Singing, stomping, and celebration ensues. Food is ferried inside and space is made for the ever increasing crowd.
A hush comes over the yard and a man emerges from the home, laying cloth along the steps, across the ground, creating a carpeted path upon which the procession begins. Four boy-shaped figures, wrapped completely in cloth, with only feet revealed, are guided each by their brothers. They have just become men.
They walk gingerly, ceremoniously, haltingly to the tent. Each mummied boy displayed proudly in front of his older male host. Prayers, preaching, singing, chanting, and crying take the crowd through the rituals of the day. The new men and their brothers echo songs which were sung for their fathers, and their fathers too.
The faces are revealed and the crowd sees the eyes of their sons, their cousins, their nephews, and grandsons. The boys never speak, only sing. Guests take turns placing money, juice, and candy in the laps of the initiated.
Food begins to erupt from the kitchen, carried out by the bucket-load. An ancient feast of impressive magnitude. Hands are rinsed, stickied, and raised again. Laughs are exchanged. Everyone sweats, eats, and sweats some more. The heat is seen on everyone's brow.
As bellies fill, bodies gather to dance. I am welcomed into the sister circle, rolling my hips as we swirl circled energy. Smiling eyes look upon me with more than just confusion or curiosity. I see joy in the mirrors of their eyes- and acceptance. Eating, singing, and dancing into their family.
I am feeling so profoundly grateful, unworthy, and elated. The party continues (and continues) and then we are invited to the after party, complete with beer and corn wine. They hear us. They speak, we are understanding. They are patient as we show what little Makhua we know. They love us. They show us love with their language, their food, their movements, their eyes. I see love in the mirror. I see me.
Mirrored, in dress, in observance, in spirit. Recognition not of face, but of eyes. Light shared and multiplied ignites revelry.
Brotherhood commemorated, consecrated, emboldened, embalmed. Sisterhood glues the memories together with food and dance. Respectful solemnity balances frenzied excitement.
Hearts join in tradition, linking each to the other in the chain that binds human to history.
