Every village carries its own kind of wisdom. It is not written in books or taught in classrooms. It lives in the mouths of elders, in the soil beneath our feet, and in the rhythm of our seasons. You can hear it in the way an old man clears his throat before he speaks, or how a mother looks up from her cooking pot and gives advice with a quiet nod. Our wisdom is not shouted — it is lived.
In my village, people may not know how to read and write, but they know how to survive. They know when the rain is coming by the smell of the wind. They know which tree will bloom early and which one will shed its leaves too soon. They know when a cow is pregnant by the way it walks and when a seed is ready to harvest by the color of its stalk. This is not science in the classroom — it is science of the heart, tested by generations.
That is why I say, my people are not foolish. They know things that cannot be taught in school. When a man’s cow gives birth to a weak calf, he does not sit and cry. He looks at the bull that mounted it. He says, “This bull is not giving me what I want.” Next season, he changes it. That is kûgarûrÃra ndume — changing the bull. That is wisdom born from experience. It is not written, but it works.
In the evening, when the sun is going down and the sky turns gold, the men sit under the mûgûmo tree. They talk about their farms, their cows, their children. They speak about the bull that broke a fence, or the one that gives the best calves. Some laugh, others advise. Every story carries a seed of truth. Every mistake teaches the next farmer not to repeat it.
But somehow, when the same men stand in line to vote for a leader, that wisdom disappears. It is like a curse that blinds the eyes of the wise. Suddenly, they forget how to choose. They forget that a leader is like a bull — his strength, his honesty, his record, his behavior — all these will determine the calf our village gets. They start saying, “He is from our clan,” or “He gave us beer last time,” or “His song is sweet.” They forget that sweet songs do not make strong calves. You cannot sing a cow into pregnancy, my friend. You must choose the right bull.
That is why I say: our problem is not lack of knowledge; it is lack of memory. We remember everything about cows and seeds, but forget everything about leadership. Yet life has shown us the same lesson over and over. When you plant bad seed, you get poor harvest. When you choose a lazy bull, you get weak calves. When you elect a bad leader, you get a suffering people. It is the same wisdom, just in different clothes.
When I was a child, my grandmother used to say, “If you want to know a wise man, watch what he repeats.” If a man keeps repeating the same mistake, he has not learned. He is like a farmer who knows the bull is weak but keeps calling it again and again, hoping for a miracle. That man will die poor, not because God cursed him, but because he refused to use the sense that God gave him.
In our village, wisdom is not about how much you talk. It is about what you do after you fail. When a cow gives birth to a weak calf, we do not curse the cow. We do not blame the rain. We do not even blame the calf. We blame the bull, and we change it. Because that is where the problem started. That is where the power lies. But when our country gives birth to poverty, bad roads, unemployment, and corruption, we blame everything except the bull — the leader. We even defend him. We say, “It is not his fault.” But deep down, we know — if a bull mounts your cow and the calf comes out weak, you cannot pretend the bull did well. That is why I call it the wisdom of the village. It is not hidden in books. It is not spoken in English or written on banners. It lives in the farms, in the granaries, and in the cattle pens. Yet, somehow, we use that wisdom in every part of life — except when choosing who leads us.
I once heard an elder say, “When the bull stops listening, the cow suffers.” That is how we live now — suffering under bulls that no longer listen, bulls that only mount to enjoy themselves, not to produce strong calves. And still, the villagers smile, sing, and vote for them again. The same bull that kicked you yesterday, you welcome today. The same bull that ate your harvest, you feed again. Is that wisdom or foolishness?
Sometimes I think the land is laughing at us. Every season, the rain falls. Every season, the seed grows. But some farmers still harvest nothing because they plant carelessly. They do not till the land. They do not weed. They do not protect the crop. Then they say, “God has punished me.” But God has not punished anyone — they punished themselves with laziness. In the same way, a people who refuse to change their bull cannot blame anyone for their suffering. A weak leader is not a curse — it is a reflection of the choices we make.
In my village, people fear witchcraft, yet the biggest witchcraft is in their own minds. The magic that keeps them in poverty is not buried under a tree — it is in their votes. They keep voting for the same people who steal from them, then expect blessings. That is like milking a cow you never feed — nothing will come out.
We must remember what our fathers taught us: “If you want good calves, choose a good bull.” That wisdom has never failed. It is as old as the soil we farm. It applies to everything — in marriage, in business, in leadership, even in friendship. The one you allow to “mount your cow” — the one you allow to influence your future — determines what kind of life you will live tomorrow.
If we can understand this in our farms, we can understand it in our politics. If we can apply the wisdom of the cattle pen to the ballot box, then maybe, just maybe, we can finally break the cycle of bad calves — the endless complaints, the repeated disappointments. The time has come for the villagers to remember their wisdom. The time has come to stop calling foolishness loyalty. The time has come to stop celebrating the same bulls that leave us hungry and tired.
In my village, people may not know how to read and write, but they know how to survive. They know when the rain is coming by the smell of the wind. They know which tree will bloom early and which one will shed its leaves too soon. They know when a cow is pregnant by the way it walks and when a seed is ready to harvest by the color of its stalk. This is not science in the classroom — it is science of the heart, tested by generations.
That is why I say, my people are not foolish. They know things that cannot be taught in school. When a man’s cow gives birth to a weak calf, he does not sit and cry. He looks at the bull that mounted it. He says, “This bull is not giving me what I want.” Next season, he changes it. That is kûgarûrÃra ndume — changing the bull. That is wisdom born from experience. It is not written, but it works.
In the evening, when the sun is going down and the sky turns gold, the men sit under the mûgûmo tree. They talk about their farms, their cows, their children. They speak about the bull that broke a fence, or the one that gives the best calves. Some laugh, others advise. Every story carries a seed of truth. Every mistake teaches the next farmer not to repeat it.
But somehow, when the same men stand in line to vote for a leader, that wisdom disappears. It is like a curse that blinds the eyes of the wise. Suddenly, they forget how to choose. They forget that a leader is like a bull — his strength, his honesty, his record, his behavior — all these will determine the calf our village gets. They start saying, “He is from our clan,” or “He gave us beer last time,” or “His song is sweet.” They forget that sweet songs do not make strong calves. You cannot sing a cow into pregnancy, my friend. You must choose the right bull.
That is why I say: our problem is not lack of knowledge; it is lack of memory. We remember everything about cows and seeds, but forget everything about leadership. Yet life has shown us the same lesson over and over. When you plant bad seed, you get poor harvest. When you choose a lazy bull, you get weak calves. When you elect a bad leader, you get a suffering people. It is the same wisdom, just in different clothes.
When I was a child, my grandmother used to say, “If you want to know a wise man, watch what he repeats.” If a man keeps repeating the same mistake, he has not learned. He is like a farmer who knows the bull is weak but keeps calling it again and again, hoping for a miracle. That man will die poor, not because God cursed him, but because he refused to use the sense that God gave him.
In our village, wisdom is not about how much you talk. It is about what you do after you fail. When a cow gives birth to a weak calf, we do not curse the cow. We do not blame the rain. We do not even blame the calf. We blame the bull, and we change it. Because that is where the problem started. That is where the power lies. But when our country gives birth to poverty, bad roads, unemployment, and corruption, we blame everything except the bull — the leader. We even defend him. We say, “It is not his fault.” But deep down, we know — if a bull mounts your cow and the calf comes out weak, you cannot pretend the bull did well. That is why I call it the wisdom of the village. It is not hidden in books. It is not spoken in English or written on banners. It lives in the farms, in the granaries, and in the cattle pens. Yet, somehow, we use that wisdom in every part of life — except when choosing who leads us.
I once heard an elder say, “When the bull stops listening, the cow suffers.” That is how we live now — suffering under bulls that no longer listen, bulls that only mount to enjoy themselves, not to produce strong calves. And still, the villagers smile, sing, and vote for them again. The same bull that kicked you yesterday, you welcome today. The same bull that ate your harvest, you feed again. Is that wisdom or foolishness?
Sometimes I think the land is laughing at us. Every season, the rain falls. Every season, the seed grows. But some farmers still harvest nothing because they plant carelessly. They do not till the land. They do not weed. They do not protect the crop. Then they say, “God has punished me.” But God has not punished anyone — they punished themselves with laziness. In the same way, a people who refuse to change their bull cannot blame anyone for their suffering. A weak leader is not a curse — it is a reflection of the choices we make.
In my village, people fear witchcraft, yet the biggest witchcraft is in their own minds. The magic that keeps them in poverty is not buried under a tree — it is in their votes. They keep voting for the same people who steal from them, then expect blessings. That is like milking a cow you never feed — nothing will come out.
We must remember what our fathers taught us: “If you want good calves, choose a good bull.” That wisdom has never failed. It is as old as the soil we farm. It applies to everything — in marriage, in business, in leadership, even in friendship. The one you allow to “mount your cow” — the one you allow to influence your future — determines what kind of life you will live tomorrow.
If we can understand this in our farms, we can understand it in our politics. If we can apply the wisdom of the cattle pen to the ballot box, then maybe, just maybe, we can finally break the cycle of bad calves — the endless complaints, the repeated disappointments. The time has come for the villagers to remember their wisdom. The time has come to stop calling foolishness loyalty. The time has come to stop celebrating the same bulls that leave us hungry and tired.
Let the same wisdom that guides your hand in the field guide your hand on the ballot. Let the same wisdom that tells you when to change a bull tell you when to change a leader. Because the bull may have a beautiful color, it may be from your clan, it may sing a sweet song — but if it gives weak calves, it must go. That is the law of the village. That is the law of life. It is the wisdom that has fed us for generations. And until we remember it, we will keep crying over the same weak calves — again and again.
