Irun Kiko

IRUN KIKO Juliana Kasumu

My new penis was propped up at a 45-degree angle. I couldn’t sit, because of the two rows of large staples, which stretched like gory centipedes from the creases of my groin, underneath the lines of my buttocks to the outside of my upper thighs. My left forearm was wrapped in a layer of silicone mesh, flowed by a layer of gauze, followed by a layer of crepe bandage, all encased in a spongy protective sling and elevated by means of a spongy protective sling and elevated by means of a strap which hung from a tall metal stand beside the bed.

Juliana Kasumu

The flesh, nerves, and arteries that had once been part of my forearm were now nestled between my thighs, in the form of the carefully elevated, brand spanking new penis. This procedure is called phalloplasty. The surgeon take skin graft from the forearm, thigh or abdomen and rolls it to create a phallus, with another roll of skin inside create a lengthened urethra. Here in the UK, there are usually three operations. The first is to create the penis and urethra and hook up the nerves; the second is to hook up the water pipe, remove and close the vagina, perform a hysterectomy and create a male— like scrotum, and the is third is to implant silicone testicles in theocratism and, if desired, a device in the shaft that allows an erection for sexual intercourse. I opted for all apart from the erectile device, as it carries with it a high risk of infection. and I couldn’t bear the thought of re-exposing my finally healed penis to new perils. I know you don’t need a penis to be a man. Many transmen are whole, happy and complete without one. But needed a penis. I needed it because it was part of me, underneath the false-feeling layer I wanted to peel back. When I dreamed, I had a penis. When I woke, it wasn’t another dream-like place in which I was less myself than my half remembered, whole, sleeping person. I knew the surgeries would be arduous, but I also knew I needed them to have any quality.

I would sleep, I would dream, and I would wake up as myself remained bedridden for two days post-op Slipping in and out of consciousness, I had half-hallucinatory visions of gore. I thought I was in a public bathroom with Ted Danson. He’d torn a hole in his stomach and was eating his own intestines. At other points, I saw sausages Long, raw sausages being sliced violently with sushi knives and cleavers. On the day of my discharge, my parents drove for six hours to collect me. My penis needed to be supported at a 45-degree angle for a whole fortnight, so that the stitches would not be strained while it healed and adhered to my groin. During my first night home, I was blindsided by the continuation of horrible, hallucinatory dreams. I looked up at the window, and saw the large mirror on my mother’s nightstand unfurl wings like a dark angel, silhouetted against the streetlight shining through the thin curtains. Was this the Angel of Death? It couldn’t be, I reasoned. It was too small. Oh, shit. Perhaps it was the Angel of Penis Death. That was it. The Angel of Penis Death had come to herald the demise of my penis, scant day safer its birth. Was there a penis heave? Would it romp with boobs and vaginas in fields of lush pubic hair? If I were to die, I wondered, what would I come back as? I decided, after several hours of bleak rumination, that might like to be a clownfish. Clownfish are sequential hermaphrodites. They are born male, but they can turn themselves into females. They have the ability, in short to change their gender by sheer force of will. They live in the warm waters of the Indian and Pacific Oceans, and they budge about coral reefs in symbiotic relationships with the anemones they make their homes. What a blissful existence.

These thought, of course, were a natural response to temporary pain. Now I’m healed and whole. it’s useless to deny the pain of the process of transformation, but I describe it not in a spirit of complaint, but in celebration. Now, despite my fading scars, my very complicated, very laborious, very human gender transition has made me feel like a real person, at last. My body is me, and vice versa, and what a wonderful, revelatory, stunning feeling that is. And I don’t say this lightly, but if reincarnation is in fact A Thing, I’d be proud as punch to reappear on this earth as a transgender person. Before my physical transition, I was swimming in circles, relying on a two second memory. I’d remember, from time to time, why I was so desperately unhappy: why I couldn’t find fulfilment, or get a really beautiful, satisfying glide along a current that felt just right. Until I realised there was so much more. And I leapt out into the ocean.