As darkness impalpably encroached the land, so did the cold.
Scared of my transgression, which I was sure there was no way out except death,
I hid behind a bush quite determinedly. It had been a fine afternoon until a
cow sneaked into our farm, and began nibbling at the maize shoots that had just
sprouted. I broke its leg.
After the errant cow had been spotted, my sister and I went
to drive it away. Just like all animals, cows are incredibly stupid and forget
where or how they gained entry into a location. As a young boy with slightly
above average intelligence, there was simply no way I could go an extra mile
and drive an animal through gates, back to where it was. That would take a
significant chunk off my idling time. As a result, my mantra was ‘you will go
through where you came through!’
With characteristic vengeance, I uttered to the animal as we
drove it off the farm:
“I will break your leg today!”
And break I did. I picked a rather large stone and hurled at
the cow. We heard a cracking sound and the cow lay crumbled like a pack cards,
and then lay still. We prodded it with sticks and it would not budge. It did
try to rise but could not. It was such a grave sin that would not be bought
with silence, and my sister quickly went to report me. I was at my wits end,
not that I had any wits, but the little I had. There was no defense. You couldn’t
just say ‘I didn’t know it could break its leg.
When the evening came, children came to drive the animals
back home to be milked. To their dismay, I imagine now, one of their cows was
down. I was not there to witness whatever transpired. I wished there was a way
I would melt and sip into the ground. Science had not invented such a thing
back then. I had to contend various scenarios in my head, chief among them the
fact that I had left mother cooking chapatis that day. I’ll miss chapatis, I
remember thinking.
Being a grave issue, it required the intervention of adults.
That was scarier. Two adults talking in a conspiratorial manner? Well, that was
doom, an Armageddon of sorts. Mother talked with them for an inordinately long
time. By the time they were done, darkness had already settled, but I could see
figures of animals being driven away. I thought I caught a glimpse of the
injured animal, alive and well, having magically regained the use of its legs.
It turned out to be a mere illusion, a mind playing tricks trying to make up an
ideal scenario of a dire situation.
I heard mother call me, assuring me that everything was
okay. She lied of course. I emerged from my hiding, armed with all the guilt I
could master. My sisters’ looks of pity could be translated to mean ‘at least
it is not me.’ It is at this point that one of your siblings who had a grudge
with you give you a thumbs up, one that ‘see how you like it! You thought it
wouldn’t get to you huh?’
By a sheer stroke of luck, nothing happened. When I say
nothing happened I mean I was not disciplined. The next day, I was ordered to
stay home. My sisters went to school. Chebaon Primary School. Unable to move,
the cow had to be fed. Talk of forced zero-grazing. I remember seeing water delivered
to it. people came to witness the magic or the tragedy that had befallen me. I
was still as a guilty as a sinner on judgment day. I had not been berated or
admonished, a thing that increased my misery. I missed school.
The headmistress, a family friend came by later that day. A
couple of adults, just as conspiratorial as they were, came by saw the still
animal and left. A pick truck came by in the afternoon, and the poor animal was
loaded into it. it drove away, and a part of the deepening misery had been
solved. Father would solve the remaining part. It involved giving away one of
our animals in compensation. The family had mourned, how the cow produced a lot
of milk. At the time I downed it, it was being milked.
When I was finally cleared to go to school, I found out that
a rumour had been spread, alleging that I broke the cow’s leg with a hoe’s
handle. I hadn’t, I said. It was just a stone. A mere stone. People couldn’t
believe that a ten-year-old boy would hurl a stone at such a high velocity that
it would permanently immobilize an adult cow. It simply was impossible. ‘May be
there was a hole somewhere,’ I heard one adult confiding to mother. The fete
was simply beyond the powers of a ten-year-old, and my classmates and
schoolmates a like could not wrap their heads around it.
And when father finally came home, he casually asked me what
had transpired that day. There was no point in lying.
“I threw a stone at it,” I replied, knowing too well that he
could spring at me and strangle me any minute. I took my chances.
“And are you proud of it?” he reduced his anger that simple
question, a question that I couldn’t master an answer, even if I made an
attempt at it.
Decades later, I discovered the same stone. How it felt
round in my palm, carrying with it the same potency of a grenade. I should have
put it among one of my sentimental collections, a vanity of sorts brought about
the allure of civilizations. It could act like piece of art, reminding me of
the time my childish might brought down a mighty cow. The best milk producing
cow. Every time I see that family, the memory of the dear beloved cow give rise
to temporary guilt.
