Saving the village 1

A young African man pays an incredible price in order to save his village from destruction.

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Saving the village 1

I still look back on the day that I was unmanned with a mixture of pride and sorrow. Nobody warned me it was going to happen and if they had, I doubt if I would have been brave enough to go through with it even for the sake of the village. Maybe my foolish masculinity would have persuaded me to sacrifice my future family and my balls for the sake of the village. We’ll never know. I made the sacrifice whether I was willing or not and now I am no longer a full man. In fact, I am nothing but a holder for the seed of the men and boys in the village. I have given up so much.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me tell you how it all started…


“Are you at it again Chinwe?”

I whirled around to see Gebhuza, one of the hunters watching me with a grin. I blushed, the blood colouring my umber skin. The whites often think that we cannot blush because our skin is so dark, but I can tell you they are wrong. Gebhuza saw my skin flush, and he laughed a hearty belly laugh as I stood there with my uchango in my hand, looking over my shoulder at him guiltily like a dog caught stealing food.

We were hunting and we had taken a break by the river to refill our water pouches and eat some of our meagre supplies. I looked at the shrunken waterway. It was a shadow of its former self. When I was just growing hair between my legs, it was so wide and deep that even a strong man could get swept away crossing it. Now, just five seasons later, you could walk across at its widest point and never get your knees wet. If it faded much more, it would be gone, and our tribe would be in danger of dying with it.

When we arrived I looked at the water. For some reason the flow put me in mind of seeing Nefari squirt. He and I often pulled together and he could squirt past his head. Thinking about it made my uchango thicken, although just about everything made my uchango thicken those days! I was like a young hyena; always eager to rut. The older hunters joked that they had never seen my uchango when it was not at least half hard. It was an exaggeration, but not by much.

Although I was proud of my virility, my lack of self control was a matter of embarrassment, and I didn’t want them to see me getting excited again.

“I’m going to drop some dirt,” I said, letting them know that I was going to empty my bowels. We were not really eating enough to need it very often, but Kibwe nodded in acknowledgement as I wandered off towards some cover. This close to the river, the trees and bushes still grew thick, but out on the plains they were drying out and shedding their leaves in a final attempt to survive the long drought. I wandered twenty five paces, my mind turning to thoughts of Afia as I went. My uchango got thicker still as I thought about sliding it between her thighs, and by the time I was out of sight, I was hard and ready to go.


I was not planning to make it a long one or the others would get suspicious. In truth, I didn’t think I’d be able to hold off more than a couple of minutes in any case because my eggs were seething in spite of the fact that I’d pulled myself twice in the morning before we met for the hunt.

White skins think that because we are naked all the time that we can never be embarrassed by our nudity. They are wrong. Boys who have small snakes are often teased about their lack of masculinity. Running around naked as Koma made us, gives most of us good sized snakes, but not all. Some have snakes thin as a finger, and the other boys will make up cruel nicknames such as worm or little turtle. Most boys do not like to be seen hard in public either. It is something for the privacy of the males’ hut, or if you are lucky enough to win a wife, for the warmth of your bed. But the new-hairs get hard at the blink of an eye, and it is common to see them blushing or trying to hide it when their snakes rise to look at the world. And I was not much better.


So I stood with my snake hard in my hand, looking over my shoulder at Gebhuza, uncertain what to do. If he was my age, I might have laughed it off and invited him to join me, but at 38 seasons, he was more than twice my age, and it would have been an inappropriate invitation.

He walked from behind to my side, and stood in front of me to the side and looked down at my uchango.

“It doesn’t look as if your snake has spat yet.”

“No,” I answered blushing stronger, but also mildly irritated that he didn’t have the good manners to go leave me alone so that I could finish.

I didn’t know what to do. Was I supposed to carry on, or let go of my still hard uchango? I fidgeted awkwardly and shuffled in the dust of the river bank.

“You may as well finish then,” he said.

I looked at him and furrowed my brow. Was I supposed to do it with him standing there?

“Now?” I asked.

He laughed.

“Of course now, unless you want to return to the others with that branch pointing the way!”

I felt awkward and sheepish, but I started to pull again. He was watching me intently, switching his attention between my face and my uchango.

At first it felt incredibly uncomfortable with him standing there, like getting hard in front of your grandmother. Then I glanced down and saw that his snake was thickening a little and that changed things. I was excited now – doing it for him as well as me. Showing off my virility. My eggs started to rise and my hand moved faster. I looked down at my pale pink plum, flashing and hiding behind the blackness of my foreskin. It was moist now; more than moist, wet.

Gebhuza’s plum started to creep out of its lair. I looked down at it, oddly happy to do that to him. I couldn’t help moistening my lips with my tongue. Gebhuza smiled at me.

Then I was squirting, thick jets of seed onto the dust an arm-length in front of me. I was surprised by how hard my snake spat, especially considering I had already done it twice that morning. The rush came so hard that I staggered. My legs literally gave way and I tottered forwards and had to take a couple of recovery steps whilst my legs found their strength again. I gasped out loud at the strength of it.

The seed stopped coming after 8 powerful squirts, and soon after, blinking, I started to regain my senses. I squeezed my thumb and first finger along the length of my ebony black uchango to chase out the last of the seed from my snake’s throat, and ran my fingers over the plum to sweep away the last of the seed from the head. Seed the colour of pearl was dripping from the outside of my first finger. I looked at it with curiosity, then at Gebhuza’s face. He was smiling gently. I flicked my wrist to shake off the seed into the dust.

I looked at Gebhuza shyly now, wondering what he had made of my performance. He said nothing, but instead he reached down and grasped his own snake. It was barely half hard, but thick as a baby’s arm.

He slowly drew his fingers back from the head, fully revealing his plum. It was darker than mine, but no less wet. I half hoped that he would start to pull it. Or order me to. Or something. I was confused. I didn’t know what I wanted, but I was excited and my snake was standing tall and watching with interest.

He started to piss, the water given pressure by the thickening of his meat. It squirted, yellow from dehydration, twisting in the bright, scorching sunlight. He aimed it at the dark patches in the dust that marked where my own seed had fallen. I watched with curiosity. It seemed to mean something but I couldn’t work out what. Then he was finished. He shook it hard and the loose skin flopped back over the head.

He let go of his uchango and it fell back between his legs heavily, a club that could be used to beat a small animal into submission! He turned to return to the camp. Before he left, he smiled at me and said, ”Don’t forget to dust your hands unless you want everyone to know what you’ve been doing.”

I looked down at my still wet hand then stooped in the dust to follow his advice.

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