African men and their dellusional love for cattle

When a retired army officer died two years ago, a policeman friend eulogised the departed warrior with this rather unique anecdote: “That old man loved his bull. If we were on assignment in Mutara, he always made a point to visit his farm, even if it was late at night. Once, he examined that bull by torchlight in deep silence for up to 10 minutes. Then with a little smile, said, “sawa, ubu twagenda”! (Its okay now, we can go).” And two weeks ago, I got another illustration of this reverence for livestock from an unlikely quarter. We were having a drink with Shyaka when his phone rung. “It’s my workman,” he announced as he stepped out of the room. He resumed his seat minutes later, his face furrowed and downcast. But his phone rang once more before we could resume our conversation. He listened for two seconds, said he would call back and curtly hung up. “Dedan, is this guy who has just called crazy? My workman informs me that my cow is limping and even before I digest the devastating news, this fellow calls asking about a book fair. How the hell does he expect me to discuss book fairs when my cow is limping?” Now, that is a proper African man. I know old men who wake up at the crack of dawn to visit the cattle shed, saying good morning to the cows without bothering to check whether the children survived the night. They know each cow’s ancestral line and call them by name. Strangely, the cows respond, causing one to wonder whether owner and beast speak the same language. Should the cow die because it ate a poisonous toad, the old men would be too distraught to eat. If he happens to be your father and you speak on phone, he will spend one minute discussing the weather, another discussing the general state of the village and the remainder of the time musing about the cows. If there is a strain in his voice when you say hello, safely bet that one of the cows sneezed the whole night. That’s why I get tickled when modern women find it offensive that dowry is still pegged to what they dismiss as ‘mere’ cattle. What they forget is that to an African elder, cattle aren’t commodities for trade, they are life itself. Even when the old men demand millions in hard cash, a marital deal is never complete until one breathing cow is exchanged. Cows aren’t a village thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if some Rwandan rears zebus inside Kigali in Kabeza. Even those guys teeing off at the Nyarutarama Golf club and Country Club own cattle which they spend hours bragging about. And it’s not just a Rwandan thing, either. Years ago, while showing guests around a traditional Rwandan homestead, a Namibian scientist suddenly burst into tears. “It’s okay, brothers, I’m fine. It’s just that this smell of urine and cow dung made me so homesick!” the man with a doctorate in zoology explained amid tearful sobs. dedantos2002@yahoo.com