Traditions, Culture, Rites and Rituals

By Eky Ntulo

“Ntasi, wake up,” Zuba shook her younger sister’s shoulder. “We must leave now if we are to make it to Lubigi before sunrise.”

Ntasi jumped up from the mat where the five girls had been sleeping and looked around the unfamiliar room. Zuba was waking the other girls. They had spent the night in the ‘Tanzi’, the betrothal hut. Realisation flooded her mind and bubble rumbled in her tummy as her excitement grew, mixed with fear. It was her passage to marriage ceremony. She must complete the traditional ‘Mpatanzi’ rituals that prepare her for marriage. Looking around she saw that everyone was awake. Zuba handed her a beautiful pale periwinkle coloured robe. A shiver run down Ntasi’s spine as the soft bluish purplish fabric covered her. The traditional colour of purity, she thought in awe. Only a bride wears this colour and only at her ‘mpatanzi’. She carefully placed a single ‘Vinca’ flower in her hair and breathed in deeply letting her breath out slowly in an effort to calm racing heart. She looked quickly at the vase of ‘vinca’ flowers that her mother would find in the morning. It signified that the rituals had begun.

“Come on,” Zuba took Ntasi’s hand and they joined the others already outside. “We must hurry.”

Even in the dark of the night, Ntasi could see the lovely colourful robes that her friends were wearing. Everything was happening so fast and she felt as if it was happening to someone else, like she was dreaming it all.

It was a steep, rough climb to the Lubigi Falls especially as the girls tried hard not to spoil their delicate robes or scratch themselves. The bride and her companions must be found without blemish. Ntasi had climbed to the Lubigi many times before but never in the dark. She led the way now and was surprised at how easily her bare feet found the familiar path. They made it in no time at all and the girls quickly disrobed and raced each other into the pool by the falls. They had to be in the water before sunrise. Screams and shouts filled the quiet mountain air as one by one the girls jumped into the icy cold water. Ntasi’s tension began to ease as her body adjusted to the water and the girls began to play.

A rainbow appeared over the falls as the sun rose and the cloudy spray of water around the falls took on a bluish purplish hue. The girls fell silent and watched the exquisite display in awe. Ntasi felt her stomach muscles tighten and a flutter began inside. The ancient spirit of purity had arrived and mpatanzi rituals could now truly begin.

What was going to happen next? Ntasi wondered. None of them had ever participated in mpatanzi before. No one knew what happened at daybreak.

“Listen to me everyone,” Zuba’s voice was sharp as it cut into the silence. “The waterfall rite must begin now. Mother told me what to do.”

Ntasi stared at her sister, hearing her words, but powerless to respond. Her heart thumped in her chest and her hands shook. There was no turning back now, she thought, a shiver running down her spine. The strong handsome face of Ndita, flashed before her and an icy calm took over her body. She was ready, she could do this, she told herself, clearing her mind to hear what Zuba was saying.

International Conference - Canada

I have been dreading leaving my children for two whole weeks to attend this International Conference organised by my employers. I had even thought that perhaps I could find a way of getting out of it. Well, I left the darling girls, crying buckets I must say, on Monday morning (May 26) and boarded my BA flight to London where I expected to connect to Toronto. It was traumatic parting for me as well because I normally don't leave the girls behind on my field trips, but this couldn't be helped.

I chose to fly BA because I believe the British are very organised and time concious and their flight times presented the shortest flying time and the most convenient for me. Imagine my dismay when we were delayed for 3 hours on the tarmac in Entebbe after boarding the plane on time, I might add.

First it was an extra bag.
"The computer in Johannesburg has indicated that the plane has an extra unidentified bag on board which must be located and taken off the plane," the Captain informed us politely. "This will only take 10 minutes and we shall be on our way."

We waited for about 20 minutes and then spoke to us again.
"We have not yet located the bag, but please bare with us, we may be another 10 minutes. We are very sorry about this delay."

He was very good at keeping us informed about what was going on. After waiting for another 20 minutes, the intercom came on again and we all shuffled hopefully in our seats.
"I'm afraid we have not yet found the extra bag. There is a plane behind us that is ready to leave, so we are going to move aside so that it can take off. Kindly remain in your seats with your seat belt firmly fastened."

After another 20 or so minutes.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we shall have to return to the terminal and remove all the bags inorder to locate the extra bag," the Captain said in his calm 'I'm totally in control' voice. "This will take about 30 minutes."

So we taxied back to the terminal and waited. There were lots of murmurs around and everyone waited expectantly.

It must have been at least an hour later.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the Captain announced. "The extra bag has been located and we are now ready for take off."

The

My Mother

I wrote this poem for my mother on mother's day. She turned 85 this month and we are so blessed to have her.

My Mother

My mother is
and has always been
a tower of strength for me

My mother is
and has always been
a fountain of love for me

My mother is
and has always been
a treasure of wisdom for me

My mother is
and has always been
a cushion of comfort for me

My mother is
and will always be
a very special person to me

My mother!

©2008 Christina Sempebwa

A MERCEDES WITH NO FUEL?

A tall man in a smart dark blue designer suit stepped out of a sleek modern Mercedes Benz. The car was dark blue matching perfectly with his three piece suit and its UAJ plate number told us that it was new, brand new. The man stepped carefully on the road, his shiny black Prada shoes reflecting the light of the midday sun.

It was the perfect picture, almost too perfect, like on of those commercials that end up having nothing to do with the car, the suit, the shoes or the man. But there was something terribly wrong with this perfect picture. Why had the man stopped on the roundabout? Why was he coming out of his car in such an awkward place?

Could it be possible that he had run out of fuel? A Mercedes Benz with no fuel! Now there is an oxymoron!

AN ISLAND ADVENTURE

by Eky Ntulo

The sun bore down heavily on Kamu’s bald head and bear shoulders. He pulled out his now grubby handkerchief and wiped it gently over his head trying to keep from rubbing the gritty sand into his scalp. Looking down he noticed that his shadow was very short and he tried to quicken his short steps struggling against the warm soft sand that wanted to swallow him up. The sack full of Nkulasa fruits slowed him down, but trudged on determinedly.

No wonder the island people wore those funny wide flat shoes, Kamu thought shaking his head. What a fool he felt now for having joined in the laughing and teasing whenever an islander came to the mainland.

This was Kamu’s first trip to island to pick Nkulasa fruit. His uncle had told him that if he did not start contributing to the family upkeep, he would have to find another relative to live with. Kamu was in class five even though he was twelve years old. His parents died when he was young and he had been tossed from one relative to another until Uncle Bulagi, his father’s youngest brother, had taken him in and put him in school. That was four years ago. Life was very pleasant living with Uncle Bulagi until recently when he married a second wife. Everything changed for everyone, but especially for Kamu as the new wife, for some unknown reason loathed him.

“I must hurry,” Kamu whispered to himself, shaking his head to concentrate on navigating the sand. “I can do this!”

Talking to himself was the only way he could keeping himself sane, what with the heat wave, the sinking sand and the wicked new wife … If only that was all there was to worry about, he thought. Whatever would he do if he missed the ferry and had to spend the night on the island?

A cold icy figure ran down his spine making him shiver in spite of the intense heat. All those stories about the terrible things that happened to people who missed the ferry just did not bear talking about. They weren’t really true, he told himself. After all he did not know anyone who had been taken away by the natives and never seen again. And if they never came back, who told the story? Besides the natives were the most gentle, polite and soft spoken people he knew!

Kamu hurried down the sandy beach as the ferry’s horn echoed loudly. It was sounded twice to let everyone know that it was the last ferry. He had made it, he thought walking confidently to join the crowd of people trying to board the ferry all at once.

I will wait for the shoving and struggling to stop, Kamu thought, resting his sack on the sand and looked around. His eyes strayed to a market stall displaying wild fruit and as if on cue, a strong gust of wind filled the air with a strong sweet aroma of ripe, begging to be eaten, fruits. Kamu’s tummy grumbled and he swallowed, surprised that there was any saliva in his dry mouth. He took a deep breath and tore his eyes away from the market stall back to the ferry. He was shocked to find that there were no more people boarding and the ferry was pulling up its ramp.

Stunned, Kamu stood there as if his feet were stuck in the sand. None of his senses seemed to be working. It was almost as if the sweet smell of the wild fruits had bewitched him and now he could not move, the ferry was leaving and he was going to be taken away by the natives! He thought in horror. Looking back at the market stall, Kamu noticed the pleasant smiling faces of the women, calling out to him to buy some fruit. Their eyes seemed to glitter in the midday heat and their smiles were a little bit strained. Kamu turned back to the ferry where a man was shouting to him to run and jump on the ferry before it was too late.

“Get your mind off the wild fruit,” the man’s voice float across the beach. “Run, come on hurry up, before it’s too late!”

His last words echoed in Kamu’s mind, bring him sharply back to reality. He had to leave the island or else. The stories came rushing back into his mind setting him free from his frozen state.

Kamu ran towards the ferry, his heart beating so fast he thought it would burst through his chest. The words ‘too late’ were reeling over and over in his mind spurring him on. As he stepped up to the wooden ferry landing, he could vaguely hear the women still calling him to buy fruit. His mouth was dry now and even as he tried to swallow there was nothing. The ferry was pulling away. The man was still shouting and holding out his hand.

“Jump boy, Jump!”

Kamu breathed deeply holding his breath as he raised his hands in front of him and leapt forward. It was one of those timeless moments but he felt his feet slip off the side of the ferry and he heard the agonizing cry of a desperate animal.

This was the end of his short life, Kamu thought as he fell to the water. If the ferry’s turbines didn’t get him, the islanders would. He held his breath waiting expecting to hit the water at any minute. Then he felt a sharp pain run through his arms almost pulling them out of their sockets. This was the beginning of a painful death, he prepared himself, trying to grab onto something, anything. His hands closed on something rough and wet and clung to it a glimmer of hope creeping into his mind. He still had not hit the water and his whole body was still intact.

“Heave yourself upwards as we pull,” a now familiar voice shouted. “Don’t let go of rope.”

Kamu didn’t know where the strength came from, but with all that he could muscle, he heaved upwards as his arms were pull and the next thing he knew he was in the ferry speeding away to the mainland. Everyone in the ferry cheered and clapped. Well everyone except the shouting man, who told him off.

“Didn’t anyone tell you not to look at the fruit market when you are boarding the ferry?” he said in a scolding but relieved voice. “That market is a trap to keep you on the island.”

“You mean the rumours are true?” Kamu asked in a shaky voice.

“What rumours?” his rescuer asked. “Once you begin eating those fruits, you won’t want to stop and the ferry will leave you. Don’t you know that the ferry doesn’t wait for people? It leaves exactly on the hour.”

“This is my first trip to island sir,” Kamu said his voice still shaky. “Thank you for helping me.”

“Hmmm,” the man said almost to himself. “Children should not be allowed on the island without supervision. I shall take this up with the authorities.” At Kamu’s chaste fallen face, he added, “You can come along again if you promise to stick with me. That is a very good sack of Nkulasa fruit you picked.” The man pointed to Kamu’s sack.

Kamu had forgotten all about his sack. Relief washed over him as humbly thanked the man for saving his sack as well. He sat down next his sack and reflected on what had just gone down. If that man had not saved him it didn’t bear thinking about where he would be now.

“I am Zigochi,” the man came and sat next to Kamu. “You will be alright if you stick with me. Now tell me about yourself.”

Kamu had heard of the great Zigochi who owned the ferry and most of the business that came from the island. There wasn’t much to tell, Kamu thought as he told his brief life story. “So I am going sell this Nkulasa fruit so that I can stay in school,” Kamu concluded his tale a broad hopeful smile lit his face. “I can go to the island every Sunday and sell the fruit during the week.”

“That sounds like a plan,” Zigochi said encouragingly. “Look, if you can pick a sack like this one every weekend, I will buy it off you for…” He closed his eyes briefly then looked straight into Kamu’s eyes. “You seem to be a very hard working boy, I will pay for all your school needs on the condition that you let me have the sack for 10 Miches and you promise to only go to island under my care and supervision.”

Kamu’s jaw dropped and his eyes bulged. He hadn’t done anything to deserve this. Why did this rich man want to help him?

“Look, I want to help you because you remind me of me when I was your age,” Zigochi said kindly. “I know you are Bulagi’s nephew.”

Kamu opened his mouth to speak and nothing came out but his mind continued to work thoughts racing through. The sack of Nkulasa was only worth 6 or at most 7 Miches, why did he want to give me more? How would he explain the extra Miches to uncle? “You can take 6 Miches home and I will start a saving fund for you with the rest of the money,” Zigochi continued as if he had read Kamu’s mind. “Don’t worry, everything will work out fine. Just remember to remain faithful to yourself.”
“Thank you, sir,” was all Kamu could say as the man walked away.

Kamu leaned back resting his head on his sack and closed his eyes. Did he really have a saviour in Mr. Zigochi or had he dreamed it all?

THE END

Thinking about mummy

I used to write poems for fun but of late, I find that when I am upset about something, my hand finds a pencil and a poem emerges. Sometimes I write about what’s upsetting me, but other times, I just write down whatever comes into my mind. Below is a sample of what I have written.

When mummy

When mummy is tough
My life becomes rough
I want to be good
Not hide in a hood

When mummy’s not tough
We have a good laugh
I don’t want to stop
I’ll laugh till I drop

©2008 Christina Sempebwa

My mum

My mum, in a sum
Can be so full of fun
As bright as the sun
With time for everyone

My mum, in a sum
Can so angry become
As loud as a drum
When I’ve done something dumb

My mum, in a sum
Can be so overcome
As sweet as blue gum
There’s really no rule of thumb

©2008 Christina Sempebwa

Strolling along

I had stayed up late one night watching a documentary on ‘swarms’. You know locusts, bees and other such insects that like to live in such large numbers at such close proximity. The next morning I woke up with these words running through my mind, “I was walking alone in the park one day …” and I grabbed a notebook to jot them down. I continued to building up this poem over a couple of months and as I wrote it, I wondered if that documentary had any influence on what I was writing. Sometimes I thought it might, but at others times I wasn’t so sure. I don’t want to spoil it by telling what it’s all about, but I do hope that you enjoy reading it.

A STROLL IN THE PARK

I was strolling alone in the park one day
Along a beautiful, bright and brisky way
When I stopped to rest by an old pine tree
And there it was hanging high and free

I looked up to investigate, what could it be?
It was brown and round like a ball you see
Yet long and thick and heavy and full.
Swaying gently it begged me silently to pull

To free it from the tree was really not my choice
But it beseeched me and pleaded in a soft humming voice
Its cries grew louder and more urgent the longer I stared
Could I touch it with my hand? I wondered if I dared

It looked perfect hanging there almost ready to burst
I plucked up my courage, it felt strange at first
The rough skin was soft, I was surprised to find
Not as I expected, not what I had in mind

I pulled and I tugged but it stayed put on the tree
I began to wonder if it really wanted to be free
Then with one last effort using both hands to pry
I gave it all I had this was my very last try

I fell back on my bottom it was free at last
What a triumph, I had done it! But then it burst
I was amazed, disappointed after all I had done
But there was no time to brood, I had to get up and run

I was surrounded by humming and buzzing you see
The mystery revealed was there for all to see
I’m in trouble, I thought scrambling to my feet, I ran
Find a pool, a pond, or even a watering-can

What an adventure, what a day, I was soaked to the skin
“They’ve gone, I’m safe,” I said with a smug foolish grin
A narrow escape, from the big buzzing mass
And onto the next adventure with great poise and class

©2007 Christina Sempebwa