By Fwamba Nc Fwamba
It is whispered in dark corners of the village, usually after people have chewed sugarcane and the moon has drunk half the night, of one legendary Bukusu soul, Kitimule. A man of pride. A man of muscle. A man of miscalculated curiosity.
One day, against common sense and grandmotherly warnings, he crossed into the feared lands of the Bayumbu, those proud warriors of the Tachoni highlands, whose ceremonies were whispered about, never discussed in daylight. But Kitimule, being Kitimule, shrugged. He said, “Let me go see for myself.”
And so he packed his things. A calabash of traditional brew, a smoked gourd of sour milk, and walked barefoot like a true son of the soil. Off he went, shoulders high, head strong, ego swollen like a ripe fruit.
He arrived during that season. Circumcision? No. Worse. It was the season of fire, the season of knives, the season of screaming silence. The Bayumbu women were preparing for their version of initiation, only this one was not for the faint-hearted. Kitimule was used to the usual circumcision rite of Bukusu but never had he imagined that in some places in this world both men and women faced the knives on their privates in order to be considered adults. It was the infamous female rite of pain, a cultural blender of agony, smoke, and iron.
Kitimule, proud and polite, stood among them. He smiled like an ignorant cock about to be slaughtered at dawn. He thought he’d see a song, a dance, and maybe get some stew. But then…
They brought out the knife.
No, not a knife. A red hot, fire-baptized, ancestor-blessed blade straight from the belly of torment. It glowed like Lucifer’s torch and hissed like an angry snake every time it hit air. And they aimed it, directly, at the most private, sacred part of the girl.
Kitimule’s smile collapsed like bad ugali. His knees began to discuss with each other. And when the blade met flesh…
“AAAAAAAIKHUUUU!”
That scream! A sound so horrifying it sent termites back underground and made goats kneel in prayer. It was not just a scream. It was a soul leaving the body to look for help.
Even birds paused mid flight. One bird allegedly never flew again. It settled in a nearby tree and took up storytelling.
The elders turned. Slowly. Dramatically.
One muttered, “This man has flinched.” Another spat into the fire. “He is not one of us.” Then came the verdict: “He is a spy!”
Spy? Kitimule? The man who once fought a drunk uncle with one hand while holding roast maize with the other? Yes. A spy. He had flinched. He had screamed. He had broken the unwritten law of stoicism.
You see, even Merry and Pippin, those two hobbits, passed their test before TreeBeard. The ents looked at them and said, “These are not orcs.” But the Tachoni elders looked at Kitimule and said, “This one, he is not Omuyumbu, he is a stranger, a spy.”
It was not really about what he saw, but what he experienced. The moment still haunts him. In fact, it’s been compared with dangerous imaginations to the scene in Eyes Wide Shut. When Tom Cruise, masked and trembling, stands in that forbidden mansion and says, “Fidelio,” only to be asked, “Yes, that is the password… but what is the password for the house?” And he stands there blank. Caught. Exposed. Finished.
That was Kitimule.
And so came the judgment.
They grabbed him, like three men handling a stubborn bull, and held him down. With the same blade of terror (now cooled slightly, thank heavens), they chopped off half a foot from each leg. Not as punishment. No, no. As a permanent reminder. A living receipt of his foolishness.
He limped home.
Not a man. Not a woman. Just a story. A myth. A walking warning.
He never told the full tale. He didn’t have to. His eyes held the footage. His limp played the soundtrack. Mothers in Bukusu land would later whisper to their sons, especially the curious ones:
“Rebanga Kitimule… wanyoa ebuyumbu.” “Ask Kitimule… the first man to go to Tachoni land.”
But no one ever really asks.
Because those who ask… rarely sleep well.
Even Wasike wa Musungu, in his hauntingly melodic song Chingoba, sang with trembling voice: “Rebanga Kitimule wanyoa ebuyumbu, kabona kamakali.” “Ask Kitimule, the first man that went to Tachoni land. He saw a lot.”
What exactly did he see?
We don’t know. We don’t want to know. But if you’re feeling brave, mad, or both… go ahead. Whisper in the dark:
“Rebanga Kitimule…”
Then hold your breath.
And pray he doesn’t answer.
