A true story of lust, booze, and an African weapon of war.
Yours truly, the African Cupid, wanted to shoot a girl with his arrow. I found her at a New Year’s Eve party in San Jose and immediately charmed her with my good looks. Or, was it my sense of humor? A few weeks later, she was spending nights at my apartment.
Girl, twenty-two and living at home with parents, loved to drink. “Motherfucker, the only reason I sleep with you is because I’m a drunk,” she said to me one night, as I attempted to lecture her after she wet my bed. So, it wasn’t the good looks.
I should have left her then, but she came back with new beddings from the store in the mall, where she worked. After owning just one set of 250-thread-count sheets – which I took off the bed only when I did laundry – those softer and fancier linens changed my heart. She was also gorgeous and the sex was great. Continue reading…
In my culture, the circumcision ritual marks the passage from childhood to manhood. When I turned ten, I had to face the knife.
We lay face down on the grass, two ten-year-old boys, completely naked, outside my uncle’s saiga, a hut where young Gusii men live until marriage. The cold from the mid-December dew cut through my tiny body like the knife I was about to face. The tips of my toes and fingers hardened from the cold and felt as if they were going to explode. Ants bit various parts of my body. In Makairo, my rural birthplace, a village nestled in the Gusii highlands of southwestern Kenya, only fireflies illuminate nights. I was scared. My heart was pumping fast. Yet this was only the beginning of a three-hour wait. And I couldn’t complain: I had asked for the harrowing experience. It was time to prove that I was capable of becoming a man.
The men who ordered us to the grass, and were now indoors, drinking, cracking jokes and talking about girls, had arrived at dusk to guide me in my painful journey to manhood. They said that at three o’clock in the morning, we would start a five-mile trek to see omosaari, a traditional circumciser. He would be waiting with several knives immersed in hot coals, ready to chop my foreskin off, without any form of anesthesia. Once there, I would stand, back against a sacred tree, with men pointing spears at me, ready to kill me if I made a sound that could embarrass my father and the village. By the time we got to the man who would sharpen our spears, as the Gusii would say, my mentors hoped freezing my body would lessen the pain. Continue reading…
Self Editor’s Note: This is an excerpt from my memoirs, which I have modified for International Women’s Day. Please let me know what you think, and share it with your networks.
It’s a sunny morning in mid May, and relatives have gathered for a small commencement ceremony in the courtyard of a wooden building at the University of California, Berkeley’s Graduate School of Journalism. As they wait for us to emerge, a man turns to my parents.
“Who are you here for?” he asks after a brief exchange of greetings.
“My son,” my father answers. “His name is Edwin, and he’ll be the commencement speaker.”
“Oh, we know Edwin,” the man says. “Our daughter Stacey says he’s very smart and very funny.”
“I’m very proud of him,” my father says.
That’s just my imagination. I was the commencement speaker at my graduation from Berkeley, but my parents weren’t there . I was too broke to bring my mother from Kenya, and my father had been dead for nearly 10 years. But had my old man been there, he would’ve been extremely proud of me. Continue reading…