In my village, the words kûgarûríra ndume carry weight. When you hear a farmer say it, you know something has gone wrong. Maybe the calf was too weak, maybe it was born with sickness, or maybe it simply didn’t meet the farmer’s hopes. Whatever the reason, when a farmer says “Ngwenda kûgarûríra ndume,” everyone nods in understanding. It means he has learned something. It means he is ready for a change.
No farmer says it with shame. In fact, it is a sign of wisdom. It shows that he is watching, that he is not sleeping on his work. He knows that if he keeps doing the same thing, he will get the same results. So he changes the bull — not because he hates the old one, but because he wants better calves. That is how life works. Change is not anger; it is wisdom. It is knowing when to stop expecting new results from the same mistake. It is knowing when to turn the page.
I remember an old man in our village called Gatonye. He was known for having the strongest calves in the entire ridge. People would visit his homestead just to see his herd. His bulls were big and fierce, their muscles firm like carved wood. One day, I asked him, “Gatonye, what is your secret? Why are your calves always so strong?” He looked at me and smiled. “My son,” he said, “it is simple. I do not keep a bull that gives me shame. The day a bull gives me a weak calf, I change it. A man who fears to change a bull will feed on disappointment.” Those words have never left me.
A man who fears to change the bull will feed on disappointment. And that is exactly what happens to us as a people. We fear change. We fear new faces. We fear the unknown. So we cling to the old bulls, even when they have given us nothing but misery. We convince ourselves that maybe this time, they will do better. We forget that a bull does not become stronger by praise — it must be replaced if it fails.
If a farmer keeps using the same bull that gives him weak calves, people laugh at him. They say, “This man is bewitched by his own stubbornness.” But when voters do the same, they call it loyalty. Yet loyalty to failure is not wisdom — it is blindness dressed in tradition.
“Kûgarûríra ndume” is not just about bulls. It is a way of thinking. It means being brave enough to say, “I deserve better.” It means refusing to suffer silently under a system that no longer works. It means having eyes to see that yesterday’s bull cannot give tomorrow’s strength. But in our politics, we treat leaders like gods. We make them untouchable. We fear to speak against them even when they have failed us. We call them “Mheshimiwa,” we bow, we sing for them, we carry their chairs — yet we are the ones who feed them with our sweat and our taxes. How can the cow worship the bull that mounts it? Who should be serving who?
If we truly understood kûgarûríra ndume, we would not let leaders sit on our necks for decades while we suffer. We would not call them “saviors” when they are the ones eating our milk. We would know that leaders are like bulls — they work for the people, not the other way round.
Every election season, the same bulls come back. They put on new clothes, bring loud songs, and promise heaven. They stand on trucks, waving hands that have done little for us. And somehow, the villagers believe again. They forget the hunger, the dust, the broken promises, and the empty schools. They forget the weak calves of the past years. They say, “This time, maybe he has changed.” But no — a bull does not become young again just because you sang for it.
Even the cows in the field know when a bull is past its time. You can see it in how it walks — slow, heavy, uninterested. A tired bull cannot give life. A greedy bull cannot share. A proud bull cannot serve. That is why a wise farmer keeps his eyes open. He watches, he learns, he changes. He does not wait for miracles; he acts with sense.
If we treated leadership like farming, our lives would be better. Because in farming, you cannot fake results. The harvest does not lie. The calf does not lie. The milk jar does not lie. You can only reap what you have sown. But in politics, we close our eyes to results. We call failure “fate.” We call corruption “smartness.” We call laziness “experience.” And because of that, we remain trapped in a circle of poverty — same bull, same results.
Let me tell you another story. There was once a man named Gategwa. He loved his bull too much. He had raised it from a young age, feeding it the best fodder, brushing its coat until it shone. It was his pride. But when it came time for mating, the bull gave weak calves. Everyone told Gategwa, “Change the bull.” But he said, “No, this bull is my friend. It will improve.” He kept using it year after year. And every year, his herd grew weaker. One day, he woke up and found his cow dead from sickness. His herd was finished. His love for the wrong bull had cost him everything.
That story is our story. We love our leaders too much to see the truth. We defend them even when their actions destroy us. We say, “At least he is ours,” or “He comes from our side.” But poverty does not know tribe. Hunger does not know clan. Suffering does not ask which village you come from. When the calf is weak, it belongs to everyone.
“Kûgarûríra ndume” is a call to courage. It is a reminder that we have power. The bull does not own the cow — the farmer does. The leaders do not own the country — the people do. We are the owners of the cow, and we must decide which bull mounts it. If we keep quiet, the wrong bull will keep mounting our cow, and we will keep raising weak calves — poor schools, dirty hospitals, bad roads, corruption, and hopeless youth.
Change does not come by prayer alone. Even in the Bible, God did not bless laziness. He blessed action. He said, “Ask, and it shall be given; seek, and you shall find; knock, and the door shall be opened.” But you must knock. You must act. You must change the bull.
Every generation must have the courage to say, “Enough.” To look at the field and say, “This harvest is poor; we must change our seed.” To look at the pen and say, “This bull has failed; it must go.” That is not rebellion — it is responsibility.
When the elders said kûgarûríra ndume, they were not just talking about animals. They were teaching us about life. About courage. About progress. They were saying, “Do not get too comfortable with failure.” Do not let habit become your prison. Do not fear new beginnings. Because change is not always easy, but it is always necessary.
Look around your village today. The roads that never get fixed, the water that never comes, the schools without teachers — all these are signs that the bull has failed. We do not need more speeches; we need new bulls. We do not need more promises; we need performance. We do not need new excuses; we need new results. Until we learn kûgarûríra ndume, our cows will keep crying, and our calves will keep dying young.
So, my brothers and sisters, when the next season comes — when the songs begin and the bulls return to the market — remember what the farmers taught us. Do not choose a bull because it is loud. Do not choose it because it is yours. Do not choose it because it bought you a drink. Choose it because it can give you strong calves. Choose it because it has a record of life, not words.
That is what kûgarûríra ndume truly means. It is not about anger or politics. It is about love for the cow — our land, our home, our future. It is about protecting what feeds us. It is about ensuring that our children inherit a herd that is healthy and strong. Because when the herd is strong, the village prospers. But when the herd is weak, everyone suffers.
And so, I say again — kûgarûríra ndume is not just a saying. It is a lesson. It is a mirror that reflects our foolishness and our hope. If we can learn to change the bull in our politics the same way we change it in our farms, we will begin to see better calves — better schools, better hospitals, better lives. Until then, the same bulls will keep mounting the same cow, and we will keep crying about the same weak calves. The choice is still ours.
No farmer says it with shame. In fact, it is a sign of wisdom. It shows that he is watching, that he is not sleeping on his work. He knows that if he keeps doing the same thing, he will get the same results. So he changes the bull — not because he hates the old one, but because he wants better calves. That is how life works. Change is not anger; it is wisdom. It is knowing when to stop expecting new results from the same mistake. It is knowing when to turn the page.
I remember an old man in our village called Gatonye. He was known for having the strongest calves in the entire ridge. People would visit his homestead just to see his herd. His bulls were big and fierce, their muscles firm like carved wood. One day, I asked him, “Gatonye, what is your secret? Why are your calves always so strong?” He looked at me and smiled. “My son,” he said, “it is simple. I do not keep a bull that gives me shame. The day a bull gives me a weak calf, I change it. A man who fears to change a bull will feed on disappointment.” Those words have never left me.
A man who fears to change the bull will feed on disappointment. And that is exactly what happens to us as a people. We fear change. We fear new faces. We fear the unknown. So we cling to the old bulls, even when they have given us nothing but misery. We convince ourselves that maybe this time, they will do better. We forget that a bull does not become stronger by praise — it must be replaced if it fails.
If a farmer keeps using the same bull that gives him weak calves, people laugh at him. They say, “This man is bewitched by his own stubbornness.” But when voters do the same, they call it loyalty. Yet loyalty to failure is not wisdom — it is blindness dressed in tradition.
“Kûgarûríra ndume” is not just about bulls. It is a way of thinking. It means being brave enough to say, “I deserve better.” It means refusing to suffer silently under a system that no longer works. It means having eyes to see that yesterday’s bull cannot give tomorrow’s strength. But in our politics, we treat leaders like gods. We make them untouchable. We fear to speak against them even when they have failed us. We call them “Mheshimiwa,” we bow, we sing for them, we carry their chairs — yet we are the ones who feed them with our sweat and our taxes. How can the cow worship the bull that mounts it? Who should be serving who?
If we truly understood kûgarûríra ndume, we would not let leaders sit on our necks for decades while we suffer. We would not call them “saviors” when they are the ones eating our milk. We would know that leaders are like bulls — they work for the people, not the other way round.
Every election season, the same bulls come back. They put on new clothes, bring loud songs, and promise heaven. They stand on trucks, waving hands that have done little for us. And somehow, the villagers believe again. They forget the hunger, the dust, the broken promises, and the empty schools. They forget the weak calves of the past years. They say, “This time, maybe he has changed.” But no — a bull does not become young again just because you sang for it.
Even the cows in the field know when a bull is past its time. You can see it in how it walks — slow, heavy, uninterested. A tired bull cannot give life. A greedy bull cannot share. A proud bull cannot serve. That is why a wise farmer keeps his eyes open. He watches, he learns, he changes. He does not wait for miracles; he acts with sense.
If we treated leadership like farming, our lives would be better. Because in farming, you cannot fake results. The harvest does not lie. The calf does not lie. The milk jar does not lie. You can only reap what you have sown. But in politics, we close our eyes to results. We call failure “fate.” We call corruption “smartness.” We call laziness “experience.” And because of that, we remain trapped in a circle of poverty — same bull, same results.
Let me tell you another story. There was once a man named Gategwa. He loved his bull too much. He had raised it from a young age, feeding it the best fodder, brushing its coat until it shone. It was his pride. But when it came time for mating, the bull gave weak calves. Everyone told Gategwa, “Change the bull.” But he said, “No, this bull is my friend. It will improve.” He kept using it year after year. And every year, his herd grew weaker. One day, he woke up and found his cow dead from sickness. His herd was finished. His love for the wrong bull had cost him everything.
That story is our story. We love our leaders too much to see the truth. We defend them even when their actions destroy us. We say, “At least he is ours,” or “He comes from our side.” But poverty does not know tribe. Hunger does not know clan. Suffering does not ask which village you come from. When the calf is weak, it belongs to everyone.
“Kûgarûríra ndume” is a call to courage. It is a reminder that we have power. The bull does not own the cow — the farmer does. The leaders do not own the country — the people do. We are the owners of the cow, and we must decide which bull mounts it. If we keep quiet, the wrong bull will keep mounting our cow, and we will keep raising weak calves — poor schools, dirty hospitals, bad roads, corruption, and hopeless youth.
Change does not come by prayer alone. Even in the Bible, God did not bless laziness. He blessed action. He said, “Ask, and it shall be given; seek, and you shall find; knock, and the door shall be opened.” But you must knock. You must act. You must change the bull.
Every generation must have the courage to say, “Enough.” To look at the field and say, “This harvest is poor; we must change our seed.” To look at the pen and say, “This bull has failed; it must go.” That is not rebellion — it is responsibility.
When the elders said kûgarûríra ndume, they were not just talking about animals. They were teaching us about life. About courage. About progress. They were saying, “Do not get too comfortable with failure.” Do not let habit become your prison. Do not fear new beginnings. Because change is not always easy, but it is always necessary.
Look around your village today. The roads that never get fixed, the water that never comes, the schools without teachers — all these are signs that the bull has failed. We do not need more speeches; we need new bulls. We do not need more promises; we need performance. We do not need new excuses; we need new results. Until we learn kûgarûríra ndume, our cows will keep crying, and our calves will keep dying young.
So, my brothers and sisters, when the next season comes — when the songs begin and the bulls return to the market — remember what the farmers taught us. Do not choose a bull because it is loud. Do not choose it because it is yours. Do not choose it because it bought you a drink. Choose it because it can give you strong calves. Choose it because it has a record of life, not words.
That is what kûgarûríra ndume truly means. It is not about anger or politics. It is about love for the cow — our land, our home, our future. It is about protecting what feeds us. It is about ensuring that our children inherit a herd that is healthy and strong. Because when the herd is strong, the village prospers. But when the herd is weak, everyone suffers.
And so, I say again — kûgarûríra ndume is not just a saying. It is a lesson. It is a mirror that reflects our foolishness and our hope. If we can learn to change the bull in our politics the same way we change it in our farms, we will begin to see better calves — better schools, better hospitals, better lives. Until then, the same bulls will keep mounting the same cow, and we will keep crying about the same weak calves. The choice is still ours.
