Joseph Lemasolai Lekuton Read Free

get firewood. Some of the midwives told her not to, but she likes to work so she went anyway.
    That same evening a bull separated itself from the herd and came up to my mother’s hut. It was a bull from a cattle family we still have today. He never came to my mother’s hut, never. But that day he showed up and rubbed himself on the hut. And one of the elders said: “A baby boy is coming, whether you like it or not.”
    About midnight—when the night is equal, as the elders say—my mom started to go into labor. Women came with herbs and other things. And when I was born, someone ran outside and said to my father, “Hey, Lekuton! Ti wa lashe! ” “Baby bull!” In my language, when a child is born, we don’t say “boy” or “girl,” but lashe , which means “male cow,” or ngache , which means “female cow.”
    My father made his signature sound: Hhehh! Every man has a signature, a sound he makes when hewants to be known. Right now, if I came to my mother’s hut in the middle of the night and I wanted my mom to identify me, I would make this sound: Harumph . And my mom would say, “That is my son.” Even if it’s after ten years. So my father made his Hhehh! and he said, “Yes, another herder is coming.” And my mother and my brothers? They were mad, because they knew that now they’d have to work a little harder to bring a little more wood and water.
    My mom thanked the Creator all the same, and all these women came and started singing. When a baby is born in the village, it’s a big celebration. But there was a complication. Although it was the rainy season and everything was green, there was disease in the area, and people were worried about the cattle. A few days before I was born, the village had held a meeting and agreed that, with grass and water everywhere, it would be a good time to move. Now, the village can’t move the day after a baby is born, so they had to call another meeting of the elders.
    “Hey, you know Lekuton’s wife has given birth to a baby boy,” they said. “It’s a blessing, and we must postpone a day or two. And then we have to move.” They talked and decided that in two days they’d move.
    Another problem was that I refused to breast-feed.I didn’t want anything to do with it. For us, as in America, it’s known to be healthy to breast-feed. But I just couldn’t do it. So one woman said, “Oh! Lemasolai! ” “Proud one.” That’s how I got my name: Lemasolai. He’s proud, he refused to breast-feed.
    They tried every trick. They tried offering me cows: Our people believe even an infant understands about the cattle. “Take that cow!” my father said. “I’ll give you that cow! And I’ll give you that other one, too, if you breast-feed!” But I didn’t listen.
    At the time, there was a little cow that had lost its mom. It slept in the hut with us and some of the little goats. My father had made a leather bottle to feed the calf with, and one woman said, “Hey, why can’t he share with the calf?” So I grew up drinking from the same bottle as that little cow. A lot of kids made fun of me, and I put on a lot of weight because I got a lot of cream from the cow instead of getting milk from my mom. But my family gave me that cow. It was the first one I owned.
    Two or three days later, the village moved. I was put in a special carrying case made of cowhide and bamboo and placed on top of a donkey. My mother walked beside me. We traveled for a whole day to another area. So really, my life as a nomadic child started when I was three days old.

Chapter 3
Cows
    My roar is like thunder.
    My cows have nothing to fear.
    Fear rests with the cowards,
    The cowards of the enemy camp.
    M Y EARLIEST MEMORY is of sitting outside our hut. I was probably three and a half or four. It was a sunny day, and around me the women were busy breaking camp. My mom was taking down our hut, getting ready to move. I was playing with rocks. I was just starting to learn the names of our