How many of us would end up like them? Would we all become shadow versions of ourselves, too broken to see another way? It’s a question I still haven’t answered. Meanwhile, they watched us, sizing us up, their eyes sharp, hungry. We weren’t just bodika in their eyes; we were maloi [baloi], witches. But not in the fun, broomstick-flying way, more like the “you’re about to get cursed” kind of witches. They didn’t say it outright. That would’ve been too easy, too direct. Instead, they wrapped their insults in song, weaving them into some twisted lullaby, making sure we couldn’t escape them. If you can make someone sing their pain, you know you’re getting under their skin.
Your children have crossed over.
In shadows they wander, No laughter found.
Zombies in silence lost all around.
It wasn’t just a song; it was a slow-moving wrecking ball to the heart. And, I swear, with every line I felt as if I was losing bits of myself. Every time they sang it, I couldn’t help thinking about my mom. You know that feeling when you say goodbye to someone, and the only thing you can remember is their face, twisted in a mix of worry and love? And you wonder, Did I make a mistake? Will they still love me when I’m not the person I used to be? And then the real fun began. If the bleeding didn’t stop, you didn’t get to go home. Imagine hearing that.
“When the lodge burns, so will you.” It wasn’t metaphorical; it was literal. It wasn’t even about the fire. It was the message: If you can’t survive this, then you’re not part of this. You were left behind, like a failed experiment. So what do you do when they throw that at you? You bury it: the pain, the shame, the fear – all of it, because in the end the only thing that mattered was survival. Modya. The name alone stirred unease, twisting the stomach. It wasn’t a myth, but a far more unsettling reality. It referred to the koma, and to those who didn’t emerge as men but who were consumed by it instead. The whispers surrounding it weren’t casual – they spoke of something too dark to name. The message was clear: don’t ask questions. But curiosity gnawed at you. What happened to those boys? They just disappeared, vanished without a trace. No one offered answers; only shrugs, side glances, and the same hollow phrase:
“He went through the koma, and that’s it.” No explanation, no closure; just silence. Those boys who didn’t come back, the ones who died during the ordeal? Instead of being buried at home, these poor boys were dumped in the bush, far from their mothers, far from their families. No goodbye; just… gone. We were supposed to accept that. “Oh, it’s just part of the process, you know, part of becoming a man.” You’re telling me that this ritual meant to turn boys into men, this sacred, time-honoured tradition, couldn’t even guarantee that the boys made it out alive? How do you trust a system that consumes its own, that chews up and spits out its children without a second thought?
If you were unlucky enough to get the news that someone didn’t make it, well, buckle up because the delivery wasn’t exactly what you’d call tender. The elders showed up at your home with their faces grim, as if they were carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. Instead of breaking the news to the family gently, they’d break a food bowl – just smash it right there in
front of your mother. Crash. In that instant, you knew your son was gone – your heart ripped out by pottery. But if the elders were really in a rush, they’d just plant a stick in your yard. No knock on the door; just a silent, standing stick. That was it. The stick needed no explanation. It was like a silent middle finger to your entire existence, the message being loud and clear: “Your son’s been eaten.” The koma is not what the elders would have you believe. It’s not some noble passage into manhood. No, it’s a sadistic, glorified assembly line; a factory where they churn out “men” but somehow forget to include any emotional intelligence.
Just macho shells of what they could’ve been. Don’t even get me started on the survivors. Surviving the koma doesn’t mean you’re a hero. It means you’re probably bleeding out, throwing up everything you eat, while everyone around you shrugs as if it’s no big deal. The best part? It’s your fault if you can’t handle the pain. The elders look at you as if you’re weak, as if somehow, you’re just not cut out for the role of “man”.
Yes, I have become a traitor. I’m the guy who decided that honesty, no matter how uncomfortable, was worth more than holding on to an outdated tradition that is eating us – men and women – alive. Would I do it again? Absolutely. Because the alternative is an endless cycle of suffering, shame, and silence. Unbearable.
But here’s the thing: after a while, I bought into it. For a while, I convinced myself that this was just how it was; that this brutality was part of becoming a man. Maybe I even believed it made me tougher, harder and stronger. But what kind of strength are we talking about here? The kind that lets you bury your feelings until they suffocate you? The kind that tells you that pain is the price you pay for “manhood”? I’m not buying it anymore. Someone must be the whistleblower. Someone must stand up and say, “Hold on. This is wrong.” It’s not easy. It’s hard as hell to step out of line when everyone’s looking at you as if you’ve betrayed the tribe. So what do you do? You speak up anyway. Because pretending the emperor’s dressed in some glorious manhood robe while he’s waving a bloody knife in front of you: that’s the real betrayal. I’m done with the silence; done with pretending that the pain was part of the process when it was just part of the problem. By the time we finished the camp, I had somehow absorbed the “wisdom” like a sponge.
“You’re soft, like a woman.” “You’re weak, like a girl.” If I ever tried to defend a woman? I might as well have painted a target on my back that said, “Please beat me.” Saying anything nice about women? Instant pass to the “weirdo” category. I could see it happening around me. Boys laughing and strutting after belittling someone’s mother.
Punchlines at the expense of women. It made me want to puke. Here’s the crazy part: it worked. I hate that it did. I saw the pattern forming right before my eyes. It started with the jokes, the casual dehumanising of women. And before long? Rape; femicide; all that garbage we pretend to be shocked by in the news. It doesn’t start with violence. It starts with these words, with these jokes, this “tradition” that somehow makes cruelty feel like the norm. This is where it all begins. In the laughter around the fire; in the insults; in the things we say because we think they’re funny but never realise how much damage they do. But what did I know? I was just a confused kid who thought that maybe, just maybe, masculinity should involve not being a jerk.
Jeffrey Rakabe hails from Limpopo and currently resides in Johannesburg. He studied Art and Drama at Tshwane University of Technology. He was a founding member of Edu-Action, a theatre outreach program for students. Jeffrey uncloaks the secrecy that shrouds initiation in this brave debut work, Led by Shepherds.
- Led by Shepherds can be purchased online here: Led by Shepherds: An Initiate’s Memoir – Jacana. As both a physical book or as an ebook. The book is also available in all good book stores.
