Behind the Scenes at the 44th Maragoli Cultural Festival
Exploring the event's splendor of dance, handcrafts, and rites of passage
As l got off the boda-boda at the gate to the Mbale Municipal Grounds, the loudspeaker blared Maragoli traditional music, setting the perfect mood for the day ahead.
I had been looking forward to this day, and it had come: December 26, 2023. I was here to attend the annual Maragoli Cultural Festival for the first time. This was going to be the 44th anniversary of the event, and I was thrilled to attend, given that I was also covering the event for Mulembe Online.
There were several police officers controlling traffic at the gate. I walked in and immediately spotted a white tent on my right marked “Exhibitors.” It was virtually empty. I was startled. It was approaching 9 am, but it seemed that the event, which was to begin at 10 am officially, was yet to take shape.
There were two men sitting at one of the tables in the tent. I struck a beeline for the pair, intrigued by the stack of Maragoli literature on the table. My attention shifted, however, as another man clad in elaborate headdress joined us at the table.
His traditional attire took me way back to the year 2001 when I underwent circumcision, a Maragoli rite of passage that marked my transition from boyhood to manhood. The Maragoli have been circumcising their boys every ten years since 1690.
This year’s traditional ceremony was in August 2023, and the boys had already graduated. Since I had missed it, I was excited to attend the festival to witness the naming ceremony of their age group while relishing other aspects of the rich Maragoli culture.
Looking at the man in the headdress reignited fond memories of the circumcision ritual in my mind. I remembered how unusually comforting it was to have so many Avasoreli (a Maragoli name for boys to be circumcised) in one place, our hair closely shaven in line with tradition. We were all acutely aware of what would happen to our bodies. Also abundantly clear to us was the fact that the procedure was going to be painful. But we were not to flinch, let alone cry.
We were all gathered at a local school on the eve of the ritual, where we later spent the night under the watchful eyes of our guardians—otherwise, some of us would have escaped to avoid going through what was, by all means, an ordeal.
For me, what eased my mind were the unmistakable sounds of superbly fire-dried drums, the swinging and shaking to praise songs specifically composed for us, and the never-ending melodious ululations. Plus, everyone was unusually sweet to us, including my disciplinarian dad. It was an exciting social affair.
It must have been before dawn when we were all lined up in a very long queue. Soon, the older men, again to keep tabs on us, lined up on either side of the queue, forming three lines. We wore mareso (decorative Swahili fabric) covering one shoulder, running way down to the opposite hip.
We embarked on a long, steady trek. The men were rhythmically stamping their feet to the ground. Then they broke into a joyous chant:
“Avana vitu, indio Kwarange Kare.”
Our children, this is how we were in the past.
It was impossible not to sing along.
Our procession meandered around the school compound before snaking its way to the forest nearby, where we bravely faced the circumcsion ceremony.
The Festival Takes Shape
As a matter of fact, I couldn't take my eyes off the man in the headdress. He reminded me of the surgeon who operated on me back in 2001.
Your stare is a little awkward, Edwin; I mentally scolded myself, and, without delay, I struck up a conversation with him to save face.
“How much is that?” I asked him, pointing at one of the newsletters on sale.
“You can give me 100 shillings,” he replied cordially.
The document, dubbed Amahoolu Newsletter, is a publication of the Vihiga Cultural Society, a group of about 10 Maragoli men who organize the festival.
Taking a quick perusal of my copy, I was reminded again of my age group name - Liambuka (Crossing Over), on page 6. The choice of the name was inspired by the transition into a new century and a new generation dubbed Millennials. Arguably, the age group went on to live up to its name by getting a better education, better employment opportunities, and family planning, unlike previous age groups.
I headed to the main arena, joined by my colleague Isaiah Nactari. The dias was beautifully draped in the national flag and carpeted in red. At either end of the platform were the national flag on the left and the Vihiga County flag on the right.
A few meters from the stage was a newly built roundhouse. It was tiny, grass-thatched, and mud-walled. Right next to the house was a makeshift itumbi, a seclusion lodge for Avakulu (newly circumcised boys), where they would stay for 30 days learning about their culture before reuniting with their families.
Several entertainers had taken to the stage to perform theatrical acts, traditional dances, and music. They all exemplified skill and passion in their performances, a testament to the diversity of talent in Maragoliland and the vastness of its cultural heritage.
Then, performers from the Bomas of Kenya graced the stage. They were here to represent other Kenyan cultures, and they did well. Their dance moves were energetic and well-coordinated. They all had sunny smiles plastered on their faces, matching their vibrant attire and shiny beaded traditional necklaces. So infectious was their energy that people were involuntarily swept by it.
By this time, there was a mammoth crowd of attendees. I was practically craning my neck to catch a glimpse of the dancers. I had reservations about the festival when I got to the venue, remember? Now I was concerned about there being too many people with so much happening at the same time and so many sounds - isukuti (a drum associated with the Luhya, particularly the Idakho and Isukha communities) indumba (big drum), kidindi (small drum), rihedwe (whistling), vigaragara (ululations) makunu (hearty laughter), etc.
“Are we going to interview people right here and now?” asked Elvis Amecha, one of my colleagues.
“Oh, I know… that's tricky right now, given the noise, but let's wait and see,” I replied.
And so we waited patiently. Remarkably, the situation did not improve. It worsened.
Linet Nyagoha, another member of our team, walked over to us. She had been preparing some of our interviewees.
“Edwin, we got him! The Maragoli elder.” She hesitated.
“That's cool!” I jumped in.
“But we can only interview him now. Otherwise, we will miss him,” she said.
We had to do the needful and so we interviewed Mr. Thomas Dengeri Mage, the Chairman of the Maragoli Cultural Society. He conveyed that the Maragolis are part of the Bantu people originally from Egypt. They first moved to Ethiopia before migrating to Uganda, where they moved to Western Kenya through the River Nile, where they finally settled.
I asked him why the theme of the festival was Eng'embe ya Mulogooli (Razor of The Maragoli).
“In the past, Mukevi (the traditional circumcisor) would use one knife. Today, we use razor blades. Every child with their own. This is what informs this year's theme,” said Mr. Mage.
Linet was right; it wasn't long before the master of the ceremony mentioned our interviewee's name, and he had to leave.
The Maragoli House and Cuisine
After the interview, we walked over to the tiny round mud-walled house. It had two bedrooms, a cooking area, and a sitting room. Here, we met Fatuma Mmbone Abdi. She was with several other women preparing some traditional Maragoli delicacies.
On the menu were irikuvi (cowpeas), mchicha (amaranth), risuza (black nightshade), mtere (jute mallow), umuduya (mashed beans), imiogo (cassava), mabwoni (sweet potatoes) etc.
“This was Mulogooli's house. Here was his bed,” Mrs Abdi said, showing us some neatly arranged strands of sticks in a corner running from wall to wall.
She continued, “While Mulogooli would sleep here, his wife would be in the other bedroom with her granddaughters.”
Dignitaries in Attendance
Soon, Mr. Musalia Mudavadi, the Prime Cabinet Secretary and Vihiga Cultural Society’s patron (and Maragoli himself), stood beside the house. He was surrounded by bodyguards, other dignitaries, and curious festival attendees. He had been ushered here to witness the lighting of chotero (bonfire), a sign that the festival had officially begun. Mr. Mudavadi then toured the itumbi and the Mulogooli house before taking his seat.
Age Group Naming Ceremony
It was now time to announce the name of the 2023 age group. Maragoli elders took to the stage. Behind them were Wodanga Utamaduni Dancers, clad in their trademark animal prints and armed with their only accompaniment - Midovoro, decorated hip-high walking sticks with no handle or handgrip on the upper end.
“And the age group's name is …Urumuli (light),” the voice of the 105-year-old Maragoli elder echoed through the loudspeakers. The crowd cheered generously. Men blew their horns. Women ululated.
On stage, the Wodanga dancers had sprung into action. The men moved in a circle, tunefully hitting their midovoro, hip-high wooden accompaniments to the red-carpeted stage, swaying along.
Female members of the group dance modestly behind the men. Earlier, Mrs. Ziborah Alumasia, a team member, told me about the restrictions placed on female dancers.
“We are not allowed to dance provocatively or carry the midovoro. It is taboo. Our role is only limited to singing and ululating.” said Mrs. Alumasia.
The Exhibitors’ Tent Heeves with People
As invited guests took to the stage to give speeches, we proceeded back to the exhibitors’ tent. It had transformed into a hive of activity. On display were traditional artifacts in clay work and basketry.
Money was changing hands here as people bought creatively designed pots and baskets, medicine, books, and the Amahoolu Newsletter.
At one of the tables, men were carefreely sipping busaa, a Maragoli traditional alcoholic brew. The drink was generously served in ivisaanda (gourds).
Knelt next to the table was a young woman holding a smooth, light stone. Her hands were beautifully decorated with tattoos. She was dexterously grinding flour from perfectly sun-dried cassava, millet, and sorghum, a traditional Maragoli practice.
To produce the flour, she would gently but firmly press the stone against the grains splashed on a bigger, smooth, flat stone that three smaller stones had supported to assume a slanting position.
She was so good at it. She stole the show. But how did she acquire the skill?
“I really enjoy doing this. My grandmother used to do it at home. I learned it from her,” she told me.
Significance of Isiongo, a Traditional Pot
There were so many pots on display, but l was fascinated by one of them, not least because of what l had gathered about its cultural significance - isiongo (a water pot). The pot was not only used for carrying and storing water but also to test the suitability of a newly married woman.
Typically, girls would elope at night. Their fiance would introduce them to their mothers in the morning. The would-be mother-in-law would give the girl, umwiha (a newly married woman), the isiongo (a water pot). She was expected to go to the nearby river and fill the traditional container using a gourd before single-handedly balancing it on her head, being careful not to crack or break it on the way back.
Needless to say, the marriage was sealed only when the umwiha lived up to the expectations.
As the festival wound down, we decided to head back to the Mulogooli house. I couldn't wait to have a piece of traditionally prepared chicken on my plate. My heart, however, sank as we approached the tiny building. It was virtually empty. Thankfully, Mrs Abdi was still there.
“I'm so sorry, but we ran out of food. We had so many people to serve,” she said.
“It’s okay; the food must have been delicious,” I replied.
Great piece.
Very impressive,, good and educative article