A Kingdom United by Ceremonies and Divided by Bureaucracy

Today was another exhausting dive into the peculiarities of this Meroitic society. I’ve been told the kingdom prides itself on its sense of equality, but their interpretation of unity borders on obsession. Here, it isn’t enough to be a part of the grand tapestry of life; you are expected to personally stitch yourself into every ceremonial scene, no matter how distant or irrelevant. Mandatory Rotational Attendance, as they call it, feels more like an overzealous school principal’s attendance policy than a cultural tradition. No one is exempt. Out of curiosity, I asked a local scribe what happens if someone simply refuses to attend their assigned ritual. He looked at me with such sincere horror, you’d think I’d just asked if they ever considered skipping the Nile’s annual flooding.

The scene at this morning’s Naming Ceremony was a spectacle. Everyone agreed little Anisur was adorably cherubic, but I’m not sure he appreciated being juggled from stranger to stranger, each performing their “due share” of the ritual tasks. I caught sight of an old woman in a corner muttering dire warnings about bad luck if the baby was handled too many times—a superstition that clearly no one followed. By the time it was my third turn holding the infant, he gave me a look that undoubtedly said, “You again?” If babies could file complaints, I suspect he would’ve demanded a full refund on the day’s proceedings.

The obsession with inclusivity doesn’t stop with people. Animals here can get ceremonial attention that rivals royalty in some places I’ve seen. When I mentioned yesterday’s Goat Retirement Ceremony to a passing herder, he sighed deeply and muttered something about how his fiercest ram is already “five moons overdue for his turn.” Apparently, delays aren’t uncommon, as everyone seems to be busy attending someone else’s ritual than hosting the ones that matter to them. The resulting backlog of ceremonies has created a sub-economy of “ceremony brokers,” scrappy intermediaries who will—at a price—trade your turn in the ritual queue with someone else. To my amusement, some of the brokers themselves dress as minor deities to lend their service an air of sanctity.

The real cost of this labyrinthine system hasn’t escaped anyone, even if they refuse to say it outright. Farmers visibly scowl at the thought of leaving their fields unattended during planting. Traders cleverly adjust travel routes to avoid locations with known ceremonies. And scribes... oh, the scribes! They shuffle around Napata like over-caffeinated ghosts, their arms permanently cramped from scratching attendance lists day and night. I overheard some speculate that the next generation of scribes might abandon papyrus entirely in favor of clay slabs just to avoid the indignity of running out of space mid-list.

After the ceremony, I sought out one of the royal scribes responsible for orchestrating the kingdom-wide attendance ledger. His pride in the system was palpable, though he conceded that some citizens have revolted by asking their camels to collapse dramatically along key trade routes, delaying travel times and ceremonies alike. “Fools,” he grumbled between strokes of his reed pen, “as if logistics bends to rebellion!” In a moment of snark, I suggested that maybe the Egyptian gods themselves had cursed the camels. The scribe paused, looked me dead in the eye, and said, completely serious, “Only if the gods have yet to complete their own rotational duties.”

Every corner of life is affected by this system, even family meals—a child’s first steps must be observed by a pre-approved micro-attendance panel. I asked one harried mother how she reconciled it all. She laughed bitterly and admitted she’s been “loaning” her youngest daughter to a rotational quota on behalf of her family to “reduce future obligations.” I half-suspect the daughter has attended ceremonies for so many strangers that her own parents must introduce themselves before supper.

It isn’t all bleak, I must say. While inconvenient, these rites have fostered a peculiar sense of intimacy among strangers. It’s not uncommon to see unrelated farmers hugging warmly at rituals simply because they had “danced the Shared Weeping” together once before. It creates a strange camaraderie—a “misery loves company” scenario but dashed with genuine moments of bonding. Just last evening, over a shared pot of millet wine, two women discussed their plans to skip their turn at the prestigious Honeycomb Harvest Ceremony by feigning sprained ankles. They weren’t related, but they spoke with a familiarity I rarely see even between siblings.