How Jomo taught authority a lesson

With all due respect to the member for Ikolomoni, the bulls I have seen pretending to fight on TV are all fakes.

For starters, they remind me of body builders — nothing natural, all steroids and hot air. They are not even zebu seeing as most show a smattering of Friesian blood and such. In short they are genetically modified. I also doubt that they would pass a drug test — I’m talking about busaa and marijuana — after their fights.

In my childhood, though, my grandfather boasted the real deal. Jomo was magnificent to look at, a huge, stately bull that moved around with a swagger, mounting every heifer in close vicinity as skinny mortals cowered in fright.

So fierce was he that only my grandfather and, his in drunken absences — and they were plenty — only my father could tether him. And when he got into a belligerent fight, it took grown men with clubs to subdue him lest he commits murder.

I recall with nostalgia the day Jomo showed utter disdain for the Chief’s Act and struck a decisively blow for justice. Apparently, my grandfather, an arrogant, know-it-all drunk, had not been paying some warped village tax for years. And as a consequence, his worship the sub-chief arrived home one morning with his henchmen in tow to collect what was owed Caesar.

prize bull

The arrears, said the chief, amounted to a whopping Sh20. My grandfather listened with characteristic calm as the sub-chief presented his case. When he was done, the old man, with annoying simplicity, said, "I have no money."

"In that case, we will confiscate your property," the sub-chief thundered. "No problem," the old man shot back. "In fact, take my bull. Sell it and bring me change."

A greedy smile lit up the sub-chief’s face. You can bet he stood to personally make a tidy bundle from that transaction. But he should have been alarmed if he had understood my grandfather’s sly grin as his prize bull was carted away.

Trust old Jomo to do the unthinkable. While he was being lead away, he suddenly whipped around, thrust his horn in the neighbourhood of the sub-chief’s well-fed bottom and heaved.

As the chief fell with an alarmed screech, Jomo danced left and right, sending the entire delegation scampering for cover as my grandfather collapsed on the ground shaking with mirth. Needless to say, the sub-chief never returned.

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