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A Man, a Bull, and a Cow

Filed Under: Short Stories

Date Created:10 Feb 2017

Last Modified:10 Feb 2017

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“You know that African’s are inherently corrupt, yes?” He asked, giving him a critical stare that formed little valleys of wrinkles on the bridge between his large, broad nose and his wide white eyes.

“I think all humans are corrupt, Himanansa.” Mubanga responded in a serious voice. He leaned forward to pour himself another glass of cibwantu from the jug that stood on the small brown, mahogany table. It was almost half way down already.

“No,” Himanansa insisted. “African’s are more corrupt. Look at what is happening, for instance in Gambia. The president there does not want to step down even after he clearly won the elections. I can cite a lot of other examples: Uganda, Zimbabwe… even here in our country.”

“That proves nothing. Let me give an example.” He noisily gulped down some cibwantu. “Have you ever been very hungry before, extremely hungry?”

“Yes. I don’t see where you are going.”

“You will in a bit.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, leaving streaks of white cibwantu on it. “Now how do you behave when you see food? You don’t even take a second to think about how much is appropriate. You actually lose your senses. All you want is to eat everything and whatever you can.”

Himanansa bit his lip and sniggered.

“So human nature takes over because you have been deprived for a long time. What we are seeing in Africa are simply the effects of being deprived for a long time. When you finally lay your hands on wealth and power and influence, you don’t want let go. Most of our leaders come from a poor background. Most of their lives have been a struggle. They fear going back to that which they left; so they hold on to power.”

“Okay, I see your point.” He said slowly, acquiescing. He hurled the last contents of his glass onto the grass, put it on the table and sat back in his seat. He was a tall, huge man, and so the grass thatched chair squeaked in its joints. He tapped his fingers together and gave a quick glance at Mubanga’s daughter, Charity, who was fetching water from the well, bent double, her back to them. She had a large back side that swayed sensuously with each little movement she made, and the tight-fitting, light fabric of a dress she wore was not helping things. He fought to avoid looking at her; pretending she was invisible.

“How about the rich people who are as wicked as hell?” He said taking a deep breath as Charity staggered to put a bucket of water on her head, facing them now. Some of the water spelt onto her dress. Her large breasts ballooned against the light fabric, the nipples threatening to poke holes through it.

“Human nature,” Mubanga said, picking up a piece of grass from the ground and using it to clean the spaces between his sparsely placed large teeth. Mubanga was a slim man, dark with a small head, and Himanansa wondered how he had managed to father two, big and beautifully formed daughters. They must have taken after their mother, because Mubanga wife was large. He didn’t know about beautiful but she was fleshy and blessed with a huge behind.

‘What’s with small Bemba men and large women?’ He thought.

“We humans are totally corrupt, from head to toe,” Mubanga was saying scratching his pointed knee that was popping out of the rip in his trousers. The nails of his fingers left long, white marks across it. “And if we Africans are by any chance more corrupt than the white guy, then it is because we are more human.”

“What do you mean?” Himanansa always found Mubanga theories very hilarious. No wonder they said Bemba’s are liars: they seemed to have a theory about everything.

“Well,” he smacked his lips and flicked away the piece of grass. It flew past Himanansa’s face, missing his eye by a few inches. Himanansa frowned.

“Ever heard of the rhesus monkey?” Mubanga continued obliviously.


“Well there is a gene in our blood, a protein, called the Rhesus factor. It is the same gene found in the rhesus monkey. Now, every black person has the rhesus factor in their blood. It is always positive; but the majority of white people do not. And I am talking about pure, white people here; not those polluted by the black gene.”

“And that makes them less human?” Himanansa raised a brow.

“It shows we do not have the same origin. If you do research, you will find that the white man is a pervasion of the human race. Remember during Noah’s day, when the angels came to have sex with the daughters of men: white men where their offspring.”

“Ha!” Himanansa scoffed. “That’s a lie!”

“Take it or leave it,” Mubanga said affectedly.

“My friend you are crazy. Where do you get these theories from?”

“I read a lot my friend. I read a lot.”

Himanansa shook his head., laughing. “I see; and yet here you are, staying in the village. I thought with all your reading, you could be in a better place?”

“I am exactly where I want to be.”

“I see.”

“And are you where you want to be, my friend?” Mubanga’s stare seemed to bore into him, sifting through him, testing him.

“I am happy at my farm,” he said.

Mubanga laughed and sat back in his seat, staring at the blue sky. “You Tonga’s and farming. How is that war with the army worms going, may I ask?”

Himanansa ignored the question, choosing to say nothing.

He suddenly started forward, back to staring at him. “Tell me something, my friend: you pass yourself off as an upright man. If you, by some crazy chance in hell, became president; you will not be lured by power and wealth and become corrupt?”

Himanansa shook his head vigorously. “Nope. Nope I will not.”

“I like your confidence man,” Mubanga laughed. “I really do.”

Himanansa rose to his feet. “I have to go now. I need to check on my cows.”

Mubanga stood up as well. “Thanks for coming my friend. And thanks for the cibwantu.”

“Don’t mention it. Next time I would like to taste some of your munkoyo. Your wife makes some pretty tasty munkoyo, almost as if she is Bemba. You taught her well.”

“Ha, sure thing, boss.” Mubanga said. “Let me walk you.”

Mubanga walked Himanansa a few metres before bidding him farewell and returning to his seat, he continued to drink what was left of the cibwantu.

Himanansa’s large farm was not so far away from Mubanga’s compound. In fact, Mubanga’s compound was on the outskirts of Himanansa’s farm. It was a funny story how Mubanga had settled deep in the heart of Tongaland despite being a Bemba. He fell in love with his wife Mutinta whom he met on one of his many visits to Choma for work. He immediately made his intentions known. Her father, a very hard man, determined that Mubanga should pay five cows for lobola or forget about marrying his daughter. Mubanga failed of course to pay and decided to stay with Mutinta and her family while he worked on the nearby farms as he fought to raise enough money to purchase five cows. That’s how the rowdy Bemba man found himself working on Himanansa’s farm and the two became very good friend. Eventually, Mutinta’s father died and Mubanga took over his farmland and property, having fathered no sons of his own.

“Sir! Sir!”a voice called behind him.

Himanansa turned and saw Charity running after him, her large breasts bouncing with each step she took. He stopped, alarmed. But his alarm melted away into realization when he saw her holding the now empty container of cibwantu that he had come with earlier.

She came to a screeching halt right next to him; almost bumping into him, gasping.

“Hey Charity,” he said, “You shouldn’t have bothered.”

“You know my father,” she panted, bending over, resting her hands on her thighs. She was clearly in pain. “He insisted. He doesn’t like keeping anything which is not is.”

“You should tell that your father that anything mine is his,” he said, sniggering, his eyes lingering on her cleavage.

“I don’t think he will hear of it,” she said straightening up. She stared him in his face. Her eyes were brilliantly white and shimmering with mischief, as is typical of Bemba girls.

“Alright,” he said reaching out for the container. “I will have it back.”

As she stretched out her hand to give it to him, one of her large breasts popped out of her dress and bounced around freely like a jack being released from its box.

Himanansa’s heart stopped and he stared fixedly at it, his eyes bulging out in mesmerization. It was a smooth brown colour, her nipple wonderfully black and pointed.

She tucked it in slowly and affectedly, her mischievous eyes still on him.

“You know,” she began slyly. “I sleep alone in my hut. It’s quite a distance from my father’s hut. Even if I screamed on top of my voice, he wouldn’t hear. I have never slept with a man. I so badly want to know how it’s like.”

Himanansa gulped in disbelief. His eyes roved her beautifully formed body, and for a while, he lost his senses. If you asked him what his name was in that moment, he wouldn’t have known.

He shook his head as he slowly came to back his senses and looked away. “Do not tempt me young lady. I am a married man. And besides, I do not do such.”

She tsk-tsked and turned to walk away. Himanansa remained staring long after her, licking his lips as he watched her behind bounce up and down with each step she took further away from him. He remained watching her until she vanished round the corner.


It was a cold, dark night and Charity turned and tossed on her mattress. The small blanket she covered herself with was too small and thin to cover her whole body. She shivered. How she wished she could have the warmth of a man envelope her! She closed her eyes and formed images of Himanansa in her mind. She slid her fingers in between her legs and began to rub furiously. At least the effort she expended in trying to give herself an organism always gave her enough warmth to keep her going for the night. But her desires had outgrown her fantasies and now she longed for the real thing. Every night, her longing, her desire, became stronger; and now it was almost overpowering her.

“Are you there, Charity,” a whisper right outside her hurt door made her start and freeze.

“Who’s there?” she said in a quivering voice.

“It’s me.”

“Himanansa?” she could barely contained her delight. “Hold on.”

She flew to the door, the blanket falling away from her body. She felt the cold wrap its long claws around her and remembered she was totally naked.

Shivering, half from the cold, and half from excitement, she unlatched the door by unhooking the wire from the nail in the wall.

Himanansa almost swooned when through the moonlight that trickled through the door, he saw that she was totally naked.

Barely had he stepped in than she wrapped her arms around him and planted her protuberant lips on his. They tasted of sweet, soft innocence. She pulled him in, and putting all her weight on his shoulders, she expertly closed the door and put the wire back in place with her feet, almost as if she had been rehearsing this moment all her life.

“I am so hungry for a man right now.” She was panting again, just like she had been doing earlier; but she was not the only one. Himanansa was also panting and sweating.

“I am here for you, baby,” he gasped.

“Oh yeah,” she fiddled with the belt on his trousers and before he realized it, his trousers fell down to his shoes, his belt making a clattering sound as the metallic part hit the clay floor. “Give it to me.”

Before he could unleash with ferocity all that had been boiling inside him, a cough emanated from the dark corner of room.

He froze, confused.

“Hima Hima Hima,” it was Mubanga’s voice.

He quickly pushed Charity away and she fell onto her bed. He bent to pull up his trousers, but blinding white light from a powerful flash light filled the room, and instead, he shielded his eyes with his hands. He was in time to see Mubanga smiling wickedly at him.

“I have caught you pants down,” he applauded himself. “I have caught you pants down trying to sleep with my virgin daughter!”

Himanansa tried to talk but his tongue was too heavy. He was more confused than scared. He quickly pulled up his trousers, his hands shivering so bad he could barely fasten it.

“I can explain,” he mumbled.

“There is nothing to explain,” Mubanga said obstinately. “I am going to report to the whole village. Your wife is going to destroy you my friend.”

“No, wait. Don’t tell anyone. We can come up with some kind of arrangement.”

“There is nothing you can do—”

“How about five cattle?” he spat quickly and desperately. His reputation was at stake. “I can give you five cattle.

Mubanga made to think about it, rubbing his chin. “Make it ten.”

“Okay okay; you can come in the morning to collect them.”

“Excellent,” Mubanga said rubbing his hands. “Now leave before I give you a thrashing you will regret.”

“Okay… okay… I am leaving.”

Before he turned to leave, he took one last look at Charity. She was not shocked, nor petrified. She looked surprising calm; a little disappointed, but calm; almost as if she had done this before. She lay there, giving him a hard to decipher look, barely covering her naked body.

As he stepped into the moonlight outside, a quick realization came over him. What was Mubanga doing in his daughter’s hut?

He tsk-tsked. Everything that had happened from the morning: Charity’s amorous body posture and clothing as she fetched water; her running to bring the container and the breast popping out of her dress—it had all been a set up. That would explain why she was so calm.

So Mubanga thought he was clever. He did not know who he was messing with. He was going to teach him a lesson. His cow was going to give birth before Christmas to a child; a child who did not resemble him.

No one messed with a Tonga bull and lived. The war had just begun.

© 2017 All Rights Reserved. Michael Sinkolongo

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