Memoirs of a Herdboy

This story was first published in Peolwane, Air Botswana’s in-flight magazine (May 2013)

The sweet smell of rain filled the air.  It always brought a festive and almost celebratory mood. The earth was damp, and grass still glistened with droplets from the rain. Sunlight penetrated through thin layers of clouds, creating a brilliant watercolour effect on the sky.

I watched swallows as they formed dazzling patterns - tiny aircrafts against opalescent clouds. My dog, Ranger, jumped excitedly ahead, sniffing and peeing. I learnt, years later, that Ranger was an Anatolian Shepherd breed. With my bare foot, I kicked pebbles into the rigid thickets through which I walked.

A balmy breeze wafted in from the nearby Seswe River. Over the gurgling sound of the driving water in the vessel, I could hear an occasional baa-ing of goats. I pushed through the bushes in the familiar valley, part of the natural world I had always cherished.

There they were. The flock of goats, looking happy as ever, were grazing on the freshly watered grass. I stood there and watched them from a distance, the river behind them glistening like a giant snake. They were beautiful creatures. As a young boy of only 14 years, my main responsibility at the cattlepost was to look after the family’s goats and sheep. I only occasionally had to tend to the cattle.    
           

Today, as a man of well over 30 years, I look back at the experiences I had in those ‘cattlepost’ days, and an unutterable joy warms my spirit. With the scarcity of rain these days, life at the cattlepost is shunned more than sought. Although still an important aspect of our culture, not many youths today are keen to live at their families’ cattleposts.

Towards the end of 2012 – another drought-stricken year, I travelled by public bus along the northern Maun-Sehithwa road, and watched with sorrow as the carcasses of cows, horses and donkeys lay scattered everywhere. The landscape was barren, with countable lone, bone-dry trees feebly standing on scorched earth, like defeated soldiers awaiting final bullets from the enemy.

Through the bus window, the scenery looked gross and sickening. It could have been a painting from a careless and gloomy artist. I shook my head and found myself thinking about the experiences I had had as a youth at our cattlepost, many years ago. Of course, it wasn’t all milk and honey. We had our highs and lows. We had joyous days of harvest when livestock was fat and gleeful, milk abundant and food plentiful. We also had, on the extreme contrary, very difficult and miserable drought periods.
           

Our cattlepost at Seswe is located ten kilometres westwards from the village of Tonota, in the central district of Botswana. Growing up in rural Tonota in the late 1980s, the cattlepost was a vital part of our livelihood. It was, in fact, an essential on which our very survival lay.

Every child in the household had his/her responsibilities. When schools closed for holidays, the boys would mount donkey-pulled scotch carts and head for the cattlepost. I relished driving the donkey cart. As the donkeys galloped through the bush, pulling us along, I’d sit on the iron seat and imagine myself being chauffeured in some sophisticated fantasy car.

The cattlepost was a tranquil resort for complete refreshment. It was blissful to be surrounded by Nature at all times. Ours, like those of many Batswana, was a traditional system of livestock production.              

On weekends back at the village, I’d sleep until the late morning sun spilled through the window of my room. But the cattlepost was different. Grandpa woke me up at the crack of dawn. It would still be a trifle dark, but he would already have started the fire. Grandpa had been staying at the cattlepost as long as I could remember. He was very passionate about our

animals. At times, he would live only with the company of hired herd boys. But such hired hands never lasted for long. Almost every year we’d have different helpers at the cattlepost. Most of them just disappeared, without saying good-bye and never to be seen again. And this meant that Grandpa would be staying alone, most times.  

Usually, one or two household items would vanish along with the helpers. I remember a particular day when we realised that our helper, Akhumzi, was never coming back to the settlement. The Burdizzo was nowhere to be seen. As though that wasn’t enough, the dehorning iron had also vanished.

Grandpa woke me up every morning. I didn’t need to be reminded of my routine duties. We had many goats, and so it took quite some time milking them, hence I had to start early. As for the cattle, Grandpa did the milking, but I had to be there for assistance.

The milk cows were well trained, and it wasn’t much of a hustle in roping their hind feet - for easy access to the udder. Sometimes Grandpa allowed me to milk the cows. I’d squat beside the cow, bucket balanced between my thighs. Grandpa would be smiling, as he watched my fingers massage and pull down on the udder teats, white streaks of milk squirting into the bucket. After it was frothing full, we’d release the calves to feed at the dams.     
           

After breakfast, I’d carry my slingshot, load my pockets with stones, and head out into the bush. With Ranger by my side, I’d feel assured that we’d be eating a guinea fowl or springhare for lunch. When I went out hunting, I was always in the company of two friends from the neighbourhood. We’d also bring home wild berries and fruits.

The cattle rearing system was a communal activity. This became evident especially in dry seasons when rain was scarce. In the late afternoons, cattle from different homesteads gathered at the borehole to drink. Back then, we didn’t have engine pump systems. Men would take turns cranking a huge bucket from the depths of the borehole, then releasing the water into the watering trough.  
           

Other activities that brought cattlepost communities together included the branding, castration, vaccination, disbudding and ear-marking of livestock. Since these were highly physical activities, neighbours assisted each other. Each family had its own brand and ear marks with which they could easily identify their animals. There was a wide variety of marks slashed on the animals’ ears with a knife. Tlhako ya Phala (Hoof of an Impala), Lekekete (Jagged Cut), Lephaga (Flap Cut), Sekei (Yoke Pin) Tlhako ya Kubu (Hoof of a Hippopotamus), Lenyena (Ear-Ring Cut) and Motlhala wa Kgama (Trail of a Hart Beast) are some of the popular ones.        

Neighbours were generous and supportive of each other. The most favoured food and drink were meat and milk. When a family had an abundance of meat, they’d share with their neighbours. Biltong (segwapa) and mashed meat (seswaa) were our staple foods. During one of my stays at the cattlepost, I ate so much meat that it became somewhat tasteless to me. When I look back now, I think the cattlepost experience has contributed to my having become a vegetarian today. Over the years, I had eaten too much meat, drank too much milk, and killed too many birds and animals. However, this realisation came only in my adulthood. My childhood at the cattlepost was a remarkable – and very happy, carefree - experience.
           

I didn’t like the drought season. The land was grassless, trees dry and animals scrawny. There wasn’t much milk. One afternoon, Ranger and I set out into the drought beaten wild. I had set wire traps in the underbrush and hoped they would snatch an unwary hare. Unfortunately, we came back home empty-handed.

Since there wasn’t much to do during drought-stricken times, I spent most of my days at a friend’s homestead. The yard was always packed with people. One shebeen queen there was celebrated for brewing the best beer in Seswe. But I wasn’t there for the beer. I was there for the music. It was in this yard where men with indigenous musical instruments gathered to play for the people in the yard. Music at the cattlepost was played purely for pleasure and entertainment. Although some of the musicians were highly skilled, it never occurred to them to make a living from their music.

I watched the folk musicians as they picked, plucked and pulled at their instruments. They sang songs that commented on social issues, condemned drought and prayed for rain. The guitar was made from a wooden strip hammered to an empty cooking oil can. It had only four strings stretched tightly over the wooden strip. The musicians were dexterous with their hands, but I was able to follow the finger movements and chords as they played. This was the first inspiration to a boy who, in years to come, would play guitar for a jazz band. Other musicians played the thumb piano (setinkane) and the traditional violin (segaba).

As though in competition, the musicians took turns playing, and the audience listened and clapped at the end of each performance. It seemed that most cattlepost households had a musical instrument or two.

With Grandpa’s help, I made my own guitar. The workmanship wasn’t bad, given the fact that it was entirely hand-made, without the use of tools.  The sound wasn’t as tuned and amplified as that of the shebeen guitarists; but, as Grandpa used to say, it was audible enough for my ears.     

With the onslaught of westernisation in Botswana, the youth in our communities live a modern life largely devoid of tradition. Although many people still love sour milk (madila), the cattlepost is no longer as important as it used to be. As for me, the cattlepost has shaped and influenced me in many ways; it is a part of my identity today, especially the musical side of me.