My Husband's First A paper

The Generation Ceremony
By Leon Konan Kouamé

When I was about fifteen years old, most of my family and I went to the village for a generation ceremony. Only part of my family could go because it was difficult for twenty-five people to find transportation and to meet at one time. Yes, I said twenty-five. My mom, dad, his second wife and twenty-two kids.
Because I grew up in the city of Abdijan, which is, and was the New York of Africa, going to the village was a huge change. The houses were small, with walls made of mud. The roofs were made of grass, drinking water came from the river, and the women cooked over the fires. It was a far cry from the houses in the city that were built with bricks, sand, and cement. Where we had clean tap water and the cooking was done on the stove. The village was called “Konankro” which means village of Konan. I believe it was named after the first king. Incidentally, my middle name is Konan. This is not as big of a coincidence as you might think. In my tribe, all children’s middle names are days of the week. The king and I were both born on Wednesdays, and were therefore given the middle name Konan, which means, literally “Wednesday.”
The generation ceremony is a time for the future generation of the Baoule tribe to prove that they are strong enough to lead the next generation. People from many other tribes come to watch this celebration of life. It is like a family reunion, county fair, graduation ceremony all rolled into one. The generation ceremony lasts three days.
On the morning of the first day, the huge drum sends the message as far as sound can travel that the Baoule tribe’s generation ceremony is about to begin. All women stay inside their huts and are not allowed to leave on the first day. Eighteen-year-old boys pain their faces black and white with different designs, and wear nothing but a loin cloth. To prove their man hood, they take knives and cut their stomachs with either a stabbing or a slicing motion. The elders then come and place dust on the wound, making the bleeding stop. It seemed like voodoo to me. ‘When that is done, the celebratory dancing begins. It was scary for me, as a young boy, to see such violence, but it was exciting as well.
On the second day, the girls are whipped by the older women. The more whippings they get, the more scars they will have. Because scars prove that the woman is strong, they are considered beautiful. So the girls as for ask many lashes as they can take. Strong and beautiful women attract strong and handsome husbands.
On this same day, boys attempt to prove their manhood once again by running across the backs of eighteen cows without falling down. While this may seem less painful than the previous day’s activities, it is actually much more dangerous, and vastly more important. If the young man falls down, it dishonors their entire family, and the family then has to pay a fine, usually in the form of an entire cow. That aside, if the boy falls, he is very likely to be killed by being trampled under the feet of the cows.
Finally, the third day arrives. This was the best part for me: no blood shed or whippings; only eating, drinking and dancing. Many foods that cannot be found in the city are served: cassava couscous, antelope meat, wild boar, yams, and rice.
Living in France when I was eighteen and unable to attend what would have been my generation ceremony, I regret not being able to prove my manhood. However, I am glad that my daughters are being raised here in the United States where they will not have to endure being whipped to prove their strength or to be considered beautiful.