No self-respecting African male is complete without a convincing herd boy experience in his past. It’s very “previously disadvantaged”. If you didn’t grow up in the rural areas and thus couldn’t have herded anything larger than a skinny township chicken, you can supplant the herd boy past with a taxi boy past. Truth be told though, the taxi boy history doesn’t quite smack of “previously disadvantaged” as much as herd boy history does.
The herd boy story is often used to show just how far you’ve come as a previously disadvantaged African. From cow’s bottoms, dung and cracked heels to Dolce & Gabbana, BMWs and finger foods at cocktail parties. It’s an awards function favourite. Before you get the wrong impression, I must mention at this moment that I’m far from what most would call successful. I’ve still got a long, long to go before I can bankroll my own herd-boy past. But I’ll get there, eventually. So I hope you bio writers are paying attention. This is the story you’ll be recalling with relish one day when I’m an accomplished and celebrated human being.
It was about 10 years ago and for some random reason my family was spending a week in the Tugela Valley, about 100 kilometres north of Durban. Imagine your dad deciding to spend the holidays in Tweebuffelsfontein. This is the KZN equivalent. The Tugela Valley is beyond quaint. It’s … well, Zulu and very rural. Girls still wander around with their bosoms flopping about for the world to see. Men still carry traditional weapons and kill bulls with their bare hands every spring.
My mother thought it would be a good idea if my brother and I got roughened up a bit. You know, live on the edge — that stuff. So she asked a local herd boy to take us out for the day. He promptly agreed, no doubt relishing the opportunity to make two, pampered town boys squirm. She packed us a cow-dung cooked lunch (Niknaks and hot dogs) and told us to come back home as tough guys. We were eager to please.
We were supposed to drive a herd of about 15 goats to a grazing area along the Tugela River. It sounded straightforward enough, except the chap omitted to mention that there was a huge cliff between the grazing pastures and the river below. Do you know what goats do when they see a cliff? They play tag up and down the drop. We decided that this was probably dangerous for the goats, so we spent the morning chasing the goats along the cliff, and cackling insanely whenever they fell down the cliff face. Obviously it wasn’t a sheer drop. It was terraced. But still, it was extremely dangerous. Our wonderful game came to an abrupt end when I accidentally put my foot through a wasp’s nest.
My brother and I were then told, after having strategically manoeuvred away from the angry wasp locale, that our herd-boy experience wouldn’t be complete without a skinny dip in the fabled Tugela River. I say river when in actual fact it was a flow of brown silt. For the record, cold mud is one of the best wasp-sting balms in the world. Also for the record, cold mud getting into all those bodily nooks and crannies is not that awesome. But we didn’t care about that. We splashed about madly, shrieking at the top of our voices. Then the bona fide herd boy froze suddenly. “What?” we asked. “Oh, nothing. I thought it was a crocodile. There are many crocodiles in this part of the river, you know. When they want to eat you, they knock your legs with their tails … Hey, where’re you going?!”
Having spent the better part of two hours in the river, we emerged to discover that the goats had disappeared. I needn’t go into the ramifications of losing a herd of goats where the local commercial system is based on livestock. Let it suffice for me to say, the poo had literally hit the fan. We had no idea where to start looking. And it was getting dark. Fortunately, we didn’t have to go far. We found them about 3 kilometres downstream. They were in the local chief’s cabbage patch. And he was waiting for us, sjambok in hand. It was at that moment that I decided that I wasn’t really cut out for this herd-boy racket.
I could tell you about the time I was almost in a fist-fight with an actual warrior-in-training, or when they tried to teach me how to milk a cow without getting decapitated by its flying back hooves. I could tell you about that one time we went stealing sugar cane, and almost got killed by the guard dog. But a man’s got his pride to think of.
Beautifully told, mate. I could see it all happening in my mind’s eye. A cowdung cooked lunch is Niknaks and a hotdog?!
Sipho, you are a magical story teller. Thanks for the smile on a Friday afternoon.
Nice one, Sipho. Them White people must LOOOOOOVE one of these. I can see you got plenty game, my brother!
say “black south african” male. don’t say “african” male.
it’s really annoying how presumptive people in this place are when it comes to generalities regarding africans.
those of us who were raised in other parts of africa get a bit annoyed when south africans try to speak for all africans. we really do.
[it's almost as bad as unitedstatesians speaking for everyone in the americas.]
I was once a herd-boy, milking cows 12 years ago but now I’m surfing the net. Its amazing how things have changed…
This is a great story …it’s also good to note that a lot of the umlungus from the Eastern Cape and KZN have also got similar experiences of herding igusha, eating umnqusho and drinking sorghum beer…
Agreat one Sipho as always! Made my Friday afternoon…I’m about to go and collect my cows…hehehe
Well related Sipho. Thank you. What do you think of the current debate between animal rights activists and the annual killing the bull as is the Zulu custom, See:
“Durban — Animal Rights Africa says dozens of bare-handed people kill the animal in a cruel and undignified way.
The group is suing Zulu King Goodwill Zwelithini in the hope of halting the practice, known as Ukweshwama.
A royal spokesman said the killing was a highly symbolic way of thanking God for the first crops of the season.”
Rest of report: “Cruel Zulu bull killing ritual challenged in court” http://allafrica.com/stories/200911250629.html
Sipho,
You have a real talent for writing ! An excellent article..
Thanks Sipho, for a lovely story beautifully told. Kind of makes me homesick for S.A. …
Nice one : ). Had me laughing as i recalled my own escapades. Life was great back then.
great story, more please!
Beautifully written. Thank you for making me laugh
Well written. Those were the days when parents and elders were respected and punishment fitted the crime. Today it is more likley the local criminal is the township hero.
Sipho, you already are an accomplished and celebrated human being. I’ll enjoy watching you get to the top of that terraced cliff!
Ha ha ha reminded me of when they built a railway line through my grandfathers field KwaMthethwa. We got into the habit of pushing our neighbours cows to the railway line so we can eat redmeat…until they put a fence around railways. but then they built a dam so meat was available both ways. Then the IFP came then the SANDF then innocence died..
Nice one
Lets donate a bull to Isilo saMabandla. No to Cultural Supremism, we will stop killing the bulls when we as the Zulus have decided its not on. No white person should tell us how our culture should progress. We don’t tell them not to lock away their elders and its human rights abuse to us too but we are tolerant…
I have been a herdboy for almost 10 years of my life.the last time I occupied this position was in 2002, when I was in Matric.Now I am on my way to live the the great life I have beeen dreaming of. Really, at some stage we did things that could endanger our lives but we did not care. Nice one chana, you told it the way it was. By the way, are the still herdboys at the age of 16?
I echo the sentiments – great writing, great fun, and a nice break from the politics and the I-take-myself-way-too-seriously debates.
A breath of fresh air!
That was hysterical.Thank you for brightening up my Monday morning.
What a pleasant read! Have a wonderful weekend, Sipho. Actually, a wonderful life!
@Sipho
I have a theory about all former herdboys when they get to the city. The first time they are very respectfull and admire city folks. Slapped again and again by the rude, business minded and un-interested city life they become (some not all of them) the defenders of city life even the ones in the townships they like to big up ‘kasi life this’ ‘kasi life that’ but when you peel of the surface you realise they were at some point sidelined as ‘farm boys’ and when they finaly embed themselves they are ticks in the cows arse, hard to pull away from the city ‘bayabhunguka’…
(Lets form a foundation ha ha the Herdboy Vetarans Association! ha ha h)
@MuAfrika,
Interesting theory. Fortunately for me, I’m happy to remain an uncouth herd boy. No ‘kasi for life’ silliness from me.
What a great blog!!
Thanks Sipho!