Abstract
At night, before sleep, I hear the bells outside my house. The circumcision candidate and his young male relatives wear them draped from wrists and ankles. During July and August they run, perhaps 30 kilometers a day: to Matendi and Kapchai, to Mwahweya, and down into the Chwele Valley, paying their respects to their families, gathering strength to face the knife.
The chants rise and fall above tinkling bells, "Hmmmm, Huwaaaah, Hmmmmmm, Huwaaaaaah." Lying in bed, late, I hear the procession coming down the footpath. Sometimes, instead of passing, they linger to dance and sing a few feet beyond the mud wall. Then the sounds fade out gradually, down the path to Mwahweya and the farms to the east at Matendi.