9. We are your parents (continued)

It was the same pick-up that arrived at the hotel the next morning, driven this time by Mrs Kwayu’s brother-in-law, who had been one of our welcomers at the airport. We had just finished our usual breakfast of pawpaw and boiled egg, and were chatting in the dining room with Frau Christiansen when he arrived, announcing that he had come to drive us to Moshi, where we were invited to a ceremony for the confirmation of Dr Semu’s son.
During the journey I asked him if we would be moving into our house today.
‘Soon, soon,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow. It is almost ready.’
Arriving at Dr Semu’s house we found the ceremony already underway. There were several smartly dressed people in the garden, sitting in silence on wooden chairs in much the same fashion as the wedding in Machame. Pigeons kept landing with a dull clanging sound on the corrugated iron roof of Dr Semu’s concrete bungalow, adding percussion to the music that blared from the window. The song was a hymn, played on a slightly out-of-tune organ over a tacky boom-thump bass and drum machine. To maximise our listening pleasure, the tape from which it was being broadcast was slightly wonky, but fortunately the guests appeared completely unbothered by it.
The three of us found some chairs towards the back of the gathering, and I sat next to a gentleman with good English who explained the nature of this celebration to me. The confirmation ceremony was to confirm the vows of allegiance to God that were made at Baptism on the child’s behalf by his Godparents, but in Tanzania the occasion’s social significance in a man’s life seemed to be far greater than in England: it brought with it a recognised transition into manhood that seemed not dissimilar to the Jewish Bar Mitzvah. This was a momentous occasion, attended by all members of the Semus’ family and various dignitaries from the area, and it would be celebrated by the eating of a large traditional goat cake.
While this was being explained to me I somehow formed a vague expectation of some novelty cake being presented, with a picture of a goat in fancy icing or something. I should have expected what was coming, but the heat or the music distracted me, so that I was taken completely by surprise when, a few minutes later, there was wheeled around the corner of the house an entire roasted goat, complete from its head to its hooves, kneeling on the platter from which it was to be served. Its little snout wore an understandably pained expression. There were ‘aah’s of appreciation from the crowd, and stifled ‘ugh’s from Pat and me.
Dr Semu’s oldest brother stood before the platter smiling proudly, and gave a short speech in Swahili which seemed, roughly speaking, to be about what a special day had been reached in his nephew’s life, and what a splendid goat we had to commemorate it with. What then followed was conducted with the solemnity of a ceremony, and with the full attention of all the guests. Strips of meat were carved from the side of the animal and Dr Semu’s son carried them on a plate to the most important and elderly members of the gathering, who he then proceeded to feed, placing one piece of meat in each of their mouths. It was an interesting ritual to watch, until I realised that he was coming round to where Pat and I were sitting and had apparently identified us as qualifying for this personal attention.
We were trapped. There was nowhere to hide, and sixty pairs of smiling eyes were fixed on us. Dr Semu’s son stood before me and lifted a particularly large piece of goat from the plate. I smiled weakly and opened my mouth to receive it. I could see out of the bottom of my eye little gristly hairs still protruding from this chunk of flesh as it was placed in my mouth. It was hard to chew and topped with a thick layer of fat that made me want to gag, and I returned all the inquisitive looks with a grimace that I hoped looked like an appreciative smile.
After about a minute of chewing I realised that my teeth would be unable to pound and tear this mouthful into anything more swallowable, so I took a surreptitious swig of coke and gulped down the lot. I paused to make sure it was not going to reappear, breathed a sigh of relief at having avoided disgrace, and turned to Pat, who had just done the same and gave me a relieved glance. For the lunch that was served I made sure I stuck to rice and boiled banana, and everyone sat around in the usual silence, listening to the Whitney Houston that had replaced the organ music.
Had this ceremony been performed a hundred years ago, it would probably have been not a celebration of Christian confirmation, but a traditional Kisua ceremony, which used to be performed by the Chagga tribe of Kilimanjaro to ensure good behaviour in their children. It was thought that the particularly wild behaviour of Chagga children when they reached the age of around twelve was attributable to an unruly spirit, and the rite that was enacted to curb this spirit involved the slaughter of a goat. The arrival of Christianity to the region has rendered many such traditions obsolete, but it was interesting to see that a goat is still slaughtered to celebrate a confirmation. As I plucked a goat hair from between my teeth and attempted to wash the fatty taste away with fizzy drink, I noted the perseverance of such Chagga traditions.