Denis Wanionla, popularly known as Denis Duke, CEO of Sungura Restaurant and a media influencer, vividly recalls the day he underwent Imbalu, the traditional circumcision ritual of the Bagisu people. Even though it has been 14 years, the memories remain fresh, etched deeply into his mind.
If you offered Denis 20 million shillings to go through it again, his answer would be an emphatic “no.” He shared his story on Facebook to highlight the downsides of a ritual revered by his community but fraught with challenges that often go unspoken.
To understand Denis’ hesitation, one must first grasp the importance of Imbalu in Bugisu culture. For Bagisu males, this rite of passage signifies the transition into manhood. Without it, a young man risks being shamed, isolated, and considered “not man enough.”
Denis himself, before circumcision in 2010, experienced relentless bullying at school from boys who had undergone the ritual. Being uncircumcised in this society makes you a target for mockery, segregation, and ridicule. The pressure to conform is immense.
At 20 years old, Denis was determined to stop the harassment and fulfill the cultural expectations placed upon him. However, Imbalu is not simply a physical act; it is a test of courage, mental endurance, and the ability to withstand pain without flinching.
The circumcision is performed without anesthesia, and any sign of fear—whether a scream, a flinch, or a tear—marks you as a coward, a stigma that would haunt you for the rest of your life.
When Denis finally stood before the local surgeon, surrounded by a crowd of villagers, the reality of the situation hit him hard. The surgeon pulled his foreskin and cut it—not once, not twice, but three times. Every nerve in his body screamed from the pain, but he had no choice but to stand still. The expectations of the community left him no room to show any emotion. To cry out would have meant a lifetime of shame, a fate worse than the pain itself.
The cultural pressures didn’t stop with the circumcision. Denis explained how the financial burden on his family was equally heavy. In Bagisu tradition, circumcision isn’t just about the act; it’s about celebration, feasting, and communal involvement.
Food and local brews, specifically Malwa, must be provided in large quantities for the attendees—primarily the men of the village who partake in the festivities. Denis’ father, already struggling financially, had to find the means to fund this large-scale event. Failure to do so would have led to Denis being abandoned on the day of his circumcision, a situation unthinkable in the eyes of the community.
Denis also emphasized the psychological toll of Imbalu. The three days of ritualistic dancing, sleepless nights, and intense anticipation before facing the knife weigh heavily on young men. Even after the circumcision, the recovery is not just about healing the physical wounds; it’s about maintaining the facade of strength and stoicism. A young man in Bagisu culture is expected to endure this ordeal with dignity without ever letting his pain or fear show. This leaves little room for emotional processing, creating a culture where vulnerability is suppressed in favor of appearing “manly.”
Now, 14 years later, Denis reflects on the experience with a sense of pride in his heritage but also a deep recognition of its difficulties. For him, the question is not whether Imbalu should be abolished—it is too deeply ingrained in the culture for that—but whether it is worth the physical, emotional, and financial toll it takes on young men and their families.
Denis’ story raises important questions about the cost of adhering to tradition. While Imbalu brings respect and honor within the Bagisu community, the personal price paid is often too high. For Denis, once was more than enough. He hopes that by sharing his experience, others will consider the less glamorous side of this revered tradition, one that often leaves scars far deeper than those on the skin.
