My childhood secret - Occasional Kwatriot Kwesi Yankah writes
Entering Winnesec in my early teens, I carried a secret burden which lingered for months until it was eventually unloaded with the help of close pals.
I had a social handicap that restrained me from being part of communal shower experience; and had to wait for a late bath or shower ahead of peers. I realized how miserable I could be when one Form One boy from the Buem area attracted taunts and boos whenever he was passing. That boy’s plight was an open secret. He was uncircumcised. Winnesec boys would openly sneer at his sexual impairment, call it impurity, often chuckling.
He belonged to Dowuona Hammond House and was uncircumcised. I was at Nkrumah House and was equally uncircumcised the difference being that while his condition was public knowledge, mine was a secret. I had never been to the wanzam.
Sad, dejected and almost lonesome, I pointed accusing fingers at the Old Lady whose omission had landed me in ridicule, and could arrest my social growth.
In my small town Duakwa, several males were circumcised earlier in life and could even be treated at birth. Part of the reason for the delay being that we were members of the royal family, whose privacy was considered sacred and exempted from laceration.
One cannot ignore the pain and agony that came with circumcision, visiting the wanzam beyond infancy. The process involved two stages: the first part being a painless slash of the foreskin. The ordeal was however in the second part which required a slow, manual tear underneath that lasted forever. It often found the initiate groaning in pain, with legs held apart. Undergoing this experience was a mark of valor and a major rite of passage to masculinity.
Once done you were free, it was over; but you were not completely discharged. The festering sore had to be cautiously dressed with herbs and spices, then wrapped in bandage or cloth. The preliminary dressing was done daily for a few days by specialists until you were handed over to domestic relations who ended the process by a daily splash of hot water, until you healed. Bystanders could tell a newly circumcised by his slow clumsy walk and ballooned cloth sometimes tied behind the neck, other times held in place by extended hands. Underwear was forbidden during the healing process, or adjusted to avoid bruising. These came with instructions to strictly abstain from sex.
Once accomplished, you had crossed a major rite of passage, and you were a man.
It was this ordeal I dreaded, but successfully endured during the Christmas vacation.
On return to Winnesec for the second term, the first question from Gbeblewu my Ewe pal, was to be expected. ‘Onua wakya?’ My brother, have you cut it? ‘Onua, makya,’ was my positive response, mimicking his imperfect Twi. He and Ebo Oppan, my two closest friends hugged me while chuckling, teasing and celebrating.
For nearly four months, they had protected me and sealed their lips, saving me from collegial scorn that would have left a permanent scar and arrested my social growth.
I was now free to bathe with peers at the dorm, and more meaningfully be a full part of the entire Winneba experience.
“Winnisec, here I come.” My Winneba experience had undergone a rebirth.
My loyal friends were the heroes. They had truly kept faith, and preserved my honor and dignity. The celebration was in their honor.
Postscript:
Even though I had successfully gone through the ritual, the wanzam’s instruction that I should strictly abstain from sex until fully healed, kept haunting me while at school; for I could not guarantee full compliance. It must have been out of sheer curiosity. Due to juvenile adventure I was hurting within several weeks thereafter.
I had indeed told my pals the truth, but not the whole truth.
An Excerpt from my memoires: The Pen at Risk
Text available
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