THE SACRED CUT
The agony in the room was intense. So intense you could feel it physically. I tried looking away to face the mud walls to erase the heart-wrenching scene on the floor. There is only so much a man’s heart can bear. Lying sprawled on the floor was Nyakio. His father Jackson Chacha was seated quietly beside me.

Life had not been kind to Jackson. In his late forties, he was no stranger to frustrations and the hurdles that life could bring. I had known Jackson for a long time, having been a casual labourer at our farm since I was a child. He was a hard-working man with an admirable character. His arduous spirit had helped him bear most of life’s vicissitudes but even the best have their limit. Recent events had sniffed out the fire in that fierce soul.

The previous night, Nyakio had undergone the rite of passage to make her ‘acceptable’ to the Kuria community. This involved the partial or total removal of the outer female genital organs to make her ‘stick’ to her husband or so the explanation was. Jackson was largely against it but to be held in esteem by other men and the society at large, he needed to give up the apple of his eyes to such barbaric practices. This notwithstanding that Nyakio was the only daughter and child, and that Jackson had in the past lost three sisters to the same.

It had not been my desire to be there witnessing such unspeakable horror. My father had insisted that I bring chicken soup to cheer up Jackson. He was in heavy mental turmoil from the previous night when his daughter began developing complications from the traditional ‘sacred cut’.

The elderly women had tried their best to salvage the situation with traditional concoctions but to no avail. The bleeding had persisted and the pain made Nyakio pass through bursts of consciousness and unconsciousness. She had tried to remain conscious for the better part of the day but as the daylight faded so did her life seem to drain with it.

When the last convulsion came and she lay still I knew all that remained was her memory. I faced Jackson whose eyes seemed fixed on an invisible object, probably cursing the gods. This practice must end we seemed to mystically agree in our thoughts, this senseless ‘sacred cut’.