Long time ago, when the earth was still young in my eyes and my feet knew only the paths of play, I was a boy of the hills. That was before I faced the knife, before I was counted among men. In those days, my world was wide and green, and my duty was simple—we took the cattle out to graze in the forest.
Ah, those mornings! The sun would rise slowly, stretching its golden fingers across the land, and we, a group of laughing boys, would drive the cows ahead of us. The bells around their necks sang softly as we walked, and the forest welcomed us with the whisper of leaves and the chatter of birds. But the forest was not always kind.
There were days when the sun grew fierce and the streams ran dry. Our throats would crack with thirst, and our lips would cling together like frightened children. We carried no gourds of water, for we trusted the land—but sometimes the land gave us none.
On such days, we turned to the cows. We would gather around one, steady her with gentle hands, and milk her right there in the forest. The warm milk would foam into our calabashes, and without waiting, we would drink—deep, desperate gulps. Raw milk, straight from the cow. One naughty boy used to call it COW BEER. It filled our bellies and cooled our burning throats. In those moments, we felt saved.
By evening, we would drive the herd back home, dust clinging to our legs, laughter still alive in our voices. But the story did not end in the forest—it followed us home.
Our mothers would come out to receive the cows, their hands skilled and ready for the evening milking. But when they sat down and pressed the udders…Nothing. Not a single drop. And then, with a sigh that carried both knowing and resignation, one would say, “Ãno ÃkamÃirwo rûru.” And all would understand. “It has been milked dry at the fields.”
The words spread from one homestead to another, until the whole village would echo with the same saying whenever boys returned from grazing without water. It was our secret, our mischief, our survival—but also our shame.
Time, as it always does, walked on. The boys grew. The knife was faced. The forest became a memory. And the cows… the cows slowly disappeared.
Today, if you walk through the same land, you will not hear the bells of cattle or the laughter of boys chasing them through the trees. The grazing fields are quiet. The forest no longer knows our footsteps. But listen carefully—the story has not ended. It has only changed its clothes.
Now, we have no cows to graze or milk. Instead, we have people. Every morning, they wake before the sun and go to their ithûkûmÃro—their places of work. They labor through the day, giving their strength, their time, their sweat. Like the cows of old, they carry something valuable within them. And just like before, there are those who are milked before the evening comes. Yes, these people earn. Their hands bring forth milk in the form of money. But by the time they return home, what remains? Nothing.
Their earnings have been drained— by careless spending, by things that were never meant to take it. Just like the cows in our childhood, they arrive at evening empty. And so, in the quiet wisdom of those who remember, a new saying has been born. We look at them, shake our heads gently, and say, “makamÃirwo rûru.” “They have been milked dry.”
The forest may be gone. The cows may be gone. But the lesson remains, walking among us like an old elder who refuses to die: if you are not careful, the world will drink from you until nothing is left.
Ah, those mornings! The sun would rise slowly, stretching its golden fingers across the land, and we, a group of laughing boys, would drive the cows ahead of us. The bells around their necks sang softly as we walked, and the forest welcomed us with the whisper of leaves and the chatter of birds. But the forest was not always kind.
There were days when the sun grew fierce and the streams ran dry. Our throats would crack with thirst, and our lips would cling together like frightened children. We carried no gourds of water, for we trusted the land—but sometimes the land gave us none.
On such days, we turned to the cows. We would gather around one, steady her with gentle hands, and milk her right there in the forest. The warm milk would foam into our calabashes, and without waiting, we would drink—deep, desperate gulps. Raw milk, straight from the cow. One naughty boy used to call it COW BEER. It filled our bellies and cooled our burning throats. In those moments, we felt saved.
By evening, we would drive the herd back home, dust clinging to our legs, laughter still alive in our voices. But the story did not end in the forest—it followed us home.
Our mothers would come out to receive the cows, their hands skilled and ready for the evening milking. But when they sat down and pressed the udders…Nothing. Not a single drop. And then, with a sigh that carried both knowing and resignation, one would say, “Ãno ÃkamÃirwo rûru.” And all would understand. “It has been milked dry at the fields.”
The words spread from one homestead to another, until the whole village would echo with the same saying whenever boys returned from grazing without water. It was our secret, our mischief, our survival—but also our shame.
Time, as it always does, walked on. The boys grew. The knife was faced. The forest became a memory. And the cows… the cows slowly disappeared.
Today, if you walk through the same land, you will not hear the bells of cattle or the laughter of boys chasing them through the trees. The grazing fields are quiet. The forest no longer knows our footsteps. But listen carefully—the story has not ended. It has only changed its clothes.
Now, we have no cows to graze or milk. Instead, we have people. Every morning, they wake before the sun and go to their ithûkûmÃro—their places of work. They labor through the day, giving their strength, their time, their sweat. Like the cows of old, they carry something valuable within them. And just like before, there are those who are milked before the evening comes. Yes, these people earn. Their hands bring forth milk in the form of money. But by the time they return home, what remains? Nothing.
Their earnings have been drained— by careless spending, by things that were never meant to take it. Just like the cows in our childhood, they arrive at evening empty. And so, in the quiet wisdom of those who remember, a new saying has been born. We look at them, shake our heads gently, and say, “makamÃirwo rûru.” “They have been milked dry.”
The forest may be gone. The cows may be gone. But the lesson remains, walking among us like an old elder who refuses to die: if you are not careful, the world will drink from you until nothing is left.
