So, from an insignificant herds-boy, I became the big gun in the whole of Bufumbira, southern Uganda, when I ‘slew’ Guy. Of course, we didn’t spell it ‘Guy’ back then; we spelt it ‘Gayi’. The character I felled was Gayi Gasyamberenge.
So, from an insignificant herds-boy, I became the big gun in the whole of Bufumbira, southern Uganda, when I ‘slew’ Guy. Of course, we didn’t spell it ‘Guy’ back then; we spelt it ‘Gayi’. The character I felled was Gayi Gasyamberenge.
As the new hot shot, however, I could not inherit the Gayi title. It was deemed inappropriate, considering my miniature size. Instead, the title of ‘Kamuboyi’ was bestowed upon me and everywhere I went it was to the shouts of: "Kamuboyi K’Ingina!”
Unfortunately, my fame in Bufumbira was short-lived as we were herded back to our native country that had banished us. We were told there was a ‘settler of arguments’ back in the country and we were required to go and register our choice: either Rwanda as a monarchy or as a republic.
Of course, the rigmarole about monarchy and republic, and how they concerned us, was Chinese to me. Whether a country is a monarchy or a republic, why should one section of the population be killed or banished? In any case, who had argued with whom, and why wasn’t the argument settled then?
In fact, even our elders didn’t have the answers. The ‘settler of arguments’ (kamarampaka) turned out to be a referendum that was going to be held in 1961 and we sought shelter with our former neighbours in Rwanda, as we waited for the voting date.
Meanwhile, I continued to act as the ‘assistant’ herds-boy to Ntibikwira, our herdsman.
In Rwanda, though, no one knew my prowess and I ceased to carry the title of ‘Kamuboyi’. Still, it was not until my secondary school days, when I started watching films, that I finally understood its literal meaning. Interestingly, it meant ‘cowboy’. How an ‘m’ had crept into the word, instead of a ‘w’, search me!
As to its allusion to strength, you might remember that those were the days of Western films. If you were born yesterday – any time after the 1970s! – Western films depicted herdsmen on horseback as heroes who vanquished villains in the Wild West of USA. Remember formidable names of screen fame, like John Wayne, Paul Newman et al?
Anyway, we were back in Rwanda and I had to go on with my job, with all the hazards that went with it. And, in Rwanda, the hazards were a bundle, especially as there was no lake where we could water the cows. There was piped ‘Rejidezo’ water, which was limited.
It was supplied by a government company known as ‘Régie des Eaux’. In Kinyarwanda, the name sounded like ‘rejidezo’, hence the name.
It was accessible at different but few points and watering the cows involved gathering enough water into a kind of earthen trough. Understandably, filling the trough with water took time.
One time, then, when Ntibikwira and I had filled up the trough and were ready to water our herd, two stout men came along and shouted: "Intruders, stop! Take your miserable cows back across the border; this water is not for cockroaches!”
I knew they were not alone, so I pleaded with Ntibikwira not to challenge them, but he was not the man to accept unfair treatment. So, as they advanced threateningly, he drew a line in the soil with his stick and challenged: "Whoever thinks he is more man than I am, stop me from watering my herd!” Clearly, we were in for war!
When the first man advanced and lifted his stick, Ntibikwira let out a war cry and did a jig in a war dance. As the man watched in confusion, Ntibikwira jumped up and hit him lightly on his nyiramivumbi. I knew that spot: the temple, just behind the eye. With umuzo stick, a harder blow would have killed the man instantly.
This one first stiffened and then fell like a log, out cold. The other man took to his heels, shouting for re-enforcement. Soon the whole hill was swarming with men, all bearing down on the two of us. Insanely, Ntibikwira shouted his war cry and did his war jig again, deaf to my pleas.
He went at them like a man possessed, aiming for their nyiramivumbi, but making sure not to hit too hard, as they surrounded him, stick blows flashing. Where I stood, I watched keenly to see where I could intervene.
When I saw one man behind him who was aiming for his nyiramivumbi, with all the force I could gather, I hit first the ankle on his right leg, then the one on his left leg. The man screamed and sat down, nursing his ankles. If you want to disable an adversary, wallop the ankles with a well-aimed stick.
At the end of the fight, three men sat in agony as they massaged their ankles, victims of my umuzo stick. Ntibikwira’s umuzo stick counted seven ‘stiffs’ lying on the ground, testimony to its wizardry on nyiramivumbi. All the others had shown us their dirty heels, clutching different parts of their bodies.
"Cheerio, my student!” shouted Ntibikwira, as we did a war dance and went back to watering our herd.