The futampaf will be a day of dust, dance and sacrifice. The man who leaves here will be far different from the one who came.

The heat of the Gambian dry season is in full force in the village of Kanilai as we wait for the arrival of President Yahya Y.J.J. Jammeh in Kanilai to officially begin the futampaf. Everyone seeks the shade of the nearest tree.

The crowd surrounding us grows steadily through the morning, until everyone seems to merge together, the initiates with their families and people who’ve come just to watch.

The president is due here at 10 a.m. But this is Africa, not Germany. Timetables are treated more like theories, schedules more like suggestions. There is nothing to do but roll with it.

And wait.

Our newly adoptive families surround us, find chairs for us, keep us supplied with a steady stream of bottled water, some of it frozen, and fresh fruit, peeled oranges and incredibly sweet limes. We stand and sit and get to know one another a little bit.

The arrival of a long black armored Hummer limo signals the arrival of President Jammeh, accompanied by squads of soldiers and a truck sporting a Dshk heavy machine gun, nicknamed “Dushka” or “dear” by their Russian manufacturers.

(Know any vets from Vietnam, Iraq, Afghanistan? Ask them about Dushka, especially if they’re helicopter pilots. They can tell you all about her…)

With the president’s arrival, we troop over to the small pavilion where he and his entourage will be sitting.

Now, it begins.

WATER AND BLOOD
The president walks down the line, pouring water into our hands for us to wash our faces. A very humble gesture for a head of state, I think.

Our eldest adoptive sister sitting in front of us, between our knees. throughout, men with microphones are making speeches in English and Wolof, the main indigenous language in the Gambia.

Small amounts of explosives are set off, simulating cannon fire, to ward off evil. With each blast, the concussions spread across the ground like waves. Each wave feels like a giant hand, trying to push you off your feet and into the next life.

The speeches continue. The president fires blasts into the air from an over-under shotgun. I’m thinking these are blanks, until leaves and branches begin falling on our heads. But I am unconcerned.

Again, the president pours water into our hands, and I’m grateful. The dust is almost oppressive now.

Here come the chickens. I see knives. Now, I am concerned.

One by one, each of us initiates has a chicken circled three times around his head. Then, it begins. The sacrifice.

I can tell that it is meant to be quick. It is not quick. It is awful. In front of me, my adoptive sister recoils. I do my best to shield her eyes.

In turn, she uses her own dress to wipe off the blood that has splattered the length of my arms.

More speeches, then the sacrifice is over. We gratefully troop off toward the shade of a baobab tree, where we will be dressed in more garments for the next phase of the futampaf.

Some member of our new family is supposed to carry us on his shoulders. Pa looks at me. I shake my head.

“Today,” I tell him, “you carry me in your heart. Shoulders, next time.”

Pa smiles. I may have just saved a life.

LEARNING TO DANCE
The male and female initiates are led away to separate compounds, out of sight of one another. We spend the next several hours being prepared for the culmination of the ceremony, the dance that each of us must do, alone, in front of the president.

There are other things that happen, but these are the parts I’m not allowed to talk about.

Night is falling as we finally troop into a small soccer stadium for the culmination of this day. the cloud of dust raised by our approach is so thick, we can barely breathe. We lift a portion of our ceremonial garments to cover our noses and mouths. It’s a bit undignified, but it’s either that or asphyxiate in a blinding cloud of beige dust.

The bleachers are packed with spectators. Photographers and cameramen are everywhere. This part of the futampaf is being broadcast live throughout the country.

One last time, our trainers show us what we’re supposed to do — but what they’re showing us now is not what we just spent the last several hours trying to learn. We’ve been had.

But it’s too late now.

One by one, we’re led to the red-carpet runway to dance our way up to the president and bow at the foot of the steps. Some of us are good, a few very good.

Me? The president didn’t even wait for me to reach the steps. He came down to get me. That’s how bad I was. All I can say is that I tried.

Then, it was the turn of the women. As a group, they definitely did a better job than we did.

As each of us finished our dance, we shook hands with the president and were presented with two new garments, brocaded caftans known as boubous. No two are the same. Mine is a thing of beauty, trimmed in silver and black. The president helps slip this over my head.

I return to my seat on the grass.

It’s over. The futampaf is done.

We say good-bye to our new Gambian families. They tell me I am not just a Colley now, but an elder. They promise to send me email, and when they do, they will sit together and do it as a family.

I shake the hand of the grandfather whose name I have been given. I thank him for his gift and tell him I will do my best to honor his name.

I’m sure he thinks I’m just being polite. He has no idea what he’s done for me. None of them do. And for all the words in the English language, I have no way to tell them.

Dinner at the Sindola Safari Lodge, then back to Social Security housing for one last night before returning to Banjul in the morning.

The true futampaf lasts for two months. This highly condensed version serves to give us a taste of Gambian culture and a feeling of re-connection to our heritage as Africans.

But it has done something far more than that to me.

In the dim moonlight filtering into the tour bus, I look at my reflection in the window. I do not recognize the man I see there. He is spent, inside and out, covered in dust, streaked with sweat, splattered in blood.

He also looks more dignified, more proud and self-assured than anyone I have ever seen wearing that face.

My face.

The face of an elder.

Whose name is Yaya Colley.

FOOTNOTE: Conversation with a chicken
Sacrifices are common in many cultures around the world, but no longer in the West. I am horrified that chickens are now going to be killed on our behalf as part of this ceremony.

But why? I’m no vegan, and let’s face it, those aren’t tofu wings they’re serving at KFC.

The truth is that live animals are killed on my behalf every day. I’m just not there to see it. But on this day, I will be. And I feel terribly unworthy of this.

That is why, privately, silently, I had a conversation with the chicken the younger Colley is holding for me.

Mostly, it was just a long, semi-coherent plea for forgiveness.

Through its unblinking eyes, the chicken broke it down for me.

In my world, my artificial, unreal Western world, we don’t dirty our hands with the realities of life. We pre-package life, sanitize and sterilize life. We distance ourselves from death, cringe, shrink and recoil from death. Squeamish and afraid.

We willingly send our young people off to war to shield us from our enemies, and even more from our fears. That’s fine, that’s all good.

Just don’t show us their coffins when you bring them home. That, we find too upsetting.

In doing this, perhaps we give death more power over us than we realize, and definitely more than it deserves.

Not here.

In the world that most people live in, life and death come together, part of the same package. To be worthy of one, you must deal with the other. Face to face. Hands on.

Be worthy of this, that look said to me. Be worthy of this life you’re being given. Be worthy of this blood of mine.

I promised the chicken I’d try.

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