Dropping Off the Cow
For Senzo and Doctor, delivering the cow was serious family business. Jamie and I went along for the adventure of the walk: about 32 kilometers (20 miles or so) across the rolling Shiselweni countryside to a homestead near Hlatikulu, connecting footpaths with dirt roads through grasslands and gumtree forests for about 9 hours. With a cow. It was not until the end of our journey, when an insulted gogo refused to accept the cow as sufficient payment for Senzo’s “transgressions,” that I realized just how serious this business was.
The gogo had been clear upon our arrival. Senzo had been told to deliver five cows to her homestead. Two would probably have sufficed as a down-payment, as a gesture of good faith… but one cow? Not good enough. These were delicate matters. And Jamie and I sat alongside him on the grass mats, accomplices in his apparent insult, smiling and playing dumb. Had we really walked all day with a cow through 7 different Chiefdoms just to insult perfect strangers? Yep. And we now sat in their yard, tired and hungry and wondering how we’d ever get home before nightfall. I asked myself, what would Mfanafuti do in this situation? Clearly, vigilance was in order.
Senzo is our 26-year old bhuti [brother]. The transgression for which he was paying was in fact an unplanned pregnancy. He’d fathered a beautiful and healthy baby boy, born to his girlfriend four months earlier. So, for knocking up his girl he now owed her homestead five cows, but without proper employment he’d only managed to round up one. He had every intention of paying the full five cows, just over time—in one-cow installments. His girlfriend’s homestead, however, had clearly expected the two-cow installment plan (actually, it’s a bit more complex than that… I’ll explain it soon enough). Their refusal to accept the cow was, in part, a matter of family pride: Senzo had taken their only granddaughter’s virginity and in exchange he now dared to low-ball them on the penalty payment. Unacceptable. So what was to happen? Were we to walk the cow all the way back? Impossible: not enough daylight, and even if there was, the beast was exhausted. And so were we.
We’d picked up the cow 9 hours earlier, from a relative’s hilltop kraal in the pale pre-dawn light of 5am. She was a bit short for a cow but quite healthy, with a solid black coat and properly curved horns… nothing special but certainly nothing to refuse under normal circumstances. She even had a name: Mfazomnyama (Zulu, not siSwati), meaning “Black Wife.” And for the first 15 kilometers or so she was feisty at the end of her rope, wildly darting off-trail and refusing to cross rivers and generally disregarding the wishes of Doctor, our homestead’s teenage shepherd boy and occasional cattle driver. But eventually she wore down and resigned herself to the long walk.
One must have a proper permit to transport a cow in Swaziland. We got ours from the local government veterinarian back in Zombodze, waking him up at about 5:30am and asking him to inspect Black Wife. He obliged us, though begrudgingly, and signed the paperwork legitimizing our journey. And it’s a good thing we were legit: policemen and regular citizens alike stopped us all along the way, demanding to see the cow’s paperwork and asking questions-- where are you taking that cow? That’s too far to walk—why aren’t you taking proper transport? And (to Senzo) why have you taken these bamhlungu with you? Our answers were usually met with outbursts of laughter. Apparently, white people walking across the countryside is kind of funny to locals… add a cow to the mix and it’s downright hilarious.
Jamie and I helped walk the cow as best we could, wielding sticks and throwing the occasional dirt clod or whistling and hollering, but mostly we just trailed behind it, watching where we stepped and talking with Senzo. We discussed the various Chiefdoms through which we walked, about the homesteads we encountered and the rivers we crossed. And of course we talked about the transgression and its five-cow penalty.
Months before, when the pregnancy had been discovered, his girlfriend’s family had paid a visit to Senzo’s homestead to discuss the issue and to claim their right to a penalty payment. They’d placed in his sweaty palm five maize kernels, which told him exactly how many cows they’d be expecting. There was no negotiation or debate about it. This was compensation for having taken their granddaughter’s virginity. Three of the five penalty cows could be directly applied to Senzo’s eventual Lubola payment of 15 cows. Sort of like the kind of arrangement common at wine tastings, where the tasting fee is waived or discounted if you end up buying a whole bottle.
Actually, it’s a lot more complicated than that. There are long-established traditional protocols for the situation Senzo and his girlfriend were in. The first cow—the one we were delivering—is called the imvimba, a term specifically referring to a cow given in order to calm down a girl’s family when there’s an unplanned pregnancy. It is usually the only one that’s butchered and eaten right away. The second cow is called the inhlawulo, or penalty cow paid for an unplanned pregnancy. And the other three cows are considered a kind of installment on the future lubola payment. The girlfriend’s gogo had been led to believe that the imvimba and the inhlawulo would be delivered together: one to eat and one to keep.
Anyway, it became clear as we walked and talked that Senzo wanted to marry this woman. He wanted to pay the Lubola and be a proper husband and father… but how? If he couldn’t come up with even two cows for an initial payment where would he manage to get 15? So it seemed that a proper traditional Swazi marriage was still quite out of reach, regardless of his (belatedly) honorable intentions. In fact, Senzo explained that many Swazi guys in his economic situation wouldn’t likely deliver even a single cow nowadays—they’d just stay away from the mother and child. But Senzo was actually interested in being a father to his new son, and he reasoned that delivering this cow would at least earn him visitation rights. Insulting the (potential) future in-laws had not been part of his plan.
Still, Senzo probably deserved the tongue-lashing that gogo gave him that afternoon in the yard. It lasted about 30 minutes and was, considering the circumstances, fairly tame. And it was quickly followed by gracious Swazi hospitality: A big, hot meal. Despite her obvious disappointment, gogo invited us into the home for chicken, lipalishi and sweet potato. It seemed a strange turn of events. I’m quite familiar with the platitude about not biting the hand that feeds you, but is there an equally clear guideline about eating from the hand you’ve just insulted? None come to mind. It was an awkward situation, which may have been why no one from the homestead joined us visitors for the meal. We ate alone— Senzo, Doctor, Jamie and myself—like the hungry outcasts we were, grateful yet nervous.
Black Wife’s paperwork sat on the corner of the table as we ate, folded into fourths and wrinkled. Senzo explained the situation. If gogo came in and asked for that paperwork, then she was tacitly accepting ownership of the cow. If not, then her refusal was clear and final. But honestly, can you imagine a gogo turning away a free cow?
By the end of our meal gogo had joined us in the living room and, much to our relief, she asked for the cow’s paperwork. She inspected it and explained that the cow must be accompanied by a solemn promise from Senzo to deliver the others as soon as possible. Senzo gave his word. So it was, for the moment, settled. Black Wife would be taken to a nearby relative’s kraal for safekeeping and would soon be slaughtered. Us four visitors were finally free to leave.
But before we did, Senzo got what he’d come for: a little time with his new son, Senzelo. His girlfriend brought him out and propped the chubby little guy on one of daddy’s legs and sat down beside him on the couch. I saw smiles all around—not strained or awkward smiles, but genuine ones. Happy ones. There’s something about a healthy little baby, smiling and bouncing atop his father’s lap, that trains one’s attentions on the future, however uncertain. And though everyone in the room that afternoon probably had different thoughts and fears about what that future held in store, it’s notable that we all found at least one thing to smile about.
What made me smile (other than being really full and free to go) was seeing Senzo make an honorable effort at fatherhood. Sure, mistakes had been made and penalties exacted and family pride had been wounded and all manner of difficulties abounded… but you know, I find it hard not to admire an honest attempt at doing the right thing, however clumsy the attempt.
By the way, if you happen to know where to find four respectable cows at a deeply, deeply discounted rate, please let me know.
This is Senzo with his son, Senzelo.
