Why Mashujaa Day is the tipping point of the year

There is something about Mashujaa Day that makes it special. Mashujaa is the tipping point of the year.

It’s the unofficial reminder that if you set a goal for this year and haven’t moved an inch, just wait for January. If you swore you would get married this year but are still single, just tell your mum to calm down – maybe next year. If you wanted to build that dream home but are still living in Plot 10, my friend, go ahead and spend that money. 2025 will figure itself out.

For yours truly, Mashujaa Day kicks off an active season of my illustrious side hustle: dowry negotiations. From now until late December, I’ll be decked out in my rusty godfather hat and brown leather jacket every Saturday, officiating ruracio negotiations. It’s not bad for extra income, especially in a year that’s been particularly tough.

Also, during this period, boys will be lining up in hospitals for a brief surgical procedure that will transform them into men. But before they face the cut, our tradition demands they visit their eldest maternal uncle to seek permission. Why the maternal uncle, you ask? Simple. It’s a nod to our ancestral past, where maternal uncles played a crucial role in a child’s life. Nowadays, of course, dads rule, but we let this treasured tradition live on.

My experience back in the day, when I went to seek permission to become a man, can be summed up in one word: chaos. It was an election year, and the heady feel of freedom hung in the air. My mum, being the efficient woman she was, sent me to Nairobi on a bus to get that all-important permission from my uncle, squeezed between sacks of waru (potatoes). After I arrived in the city of many lights, I was passed from one trusted relative to the next until I finally reached my uncle’s place.

My city cousins hadn’t seen their dad for days, and when he finally staggered home, he was singing militant anti-KANU songs. Then, he disappeared again. Days turned into weeks. One night, he reappeared with several men. They talked excitedly in the sitting room, warming their tummies with a bottle of Popov Vodka. Their voices rumbled like deep political earthquakes, frequently mentioning Matiba, Rubia, and Ford.

Once again, I didn’t see my elusive uncle for days. I reconciled myself to the fate of spending another year as a boy.

After two full weeks of my uncle’s disappearing acts, I’d had enough. One morning, I approached my aunt. “Can I just get permission from you?” I pleaded. She must have found my desperation amusing because that very evening, she whispered something to my uncle, and just like that, I got the coveted permission. The next morning, I found myself in Murang’a town at the hands of Dr. Poppat, a dexterous mhindi surgeon who turned boys into men in 30 minutes flat.

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If you’re an uncle out there tasked with giving your nephews this sacred permission, be kind. Don’t put them through a month-long game of hide-and-seek like my uncle did to me.

Happy Mashujaa to all of you!