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#maasai
I live in Moshi,Tanzania, As a child,one day I got lost, A maasai took me to his home. He lived at the foothills of the majestic Mt.Kilimanjaro, His home was a kraal (hut) made of  stone,sticks and cow dung. I cried for my parents, So he fed me milk and blood from a cow, He pierced a hole in the cow's neck, He put a bamboo and told me to drink the blood, It was warm but I vomited, Gradually, I got used to it. The maasai's  way of life is communilism, Hunting,gathering and raiding neighbours cattle. Theirs is an age set system for men, The children look after the herd, I joined them having fun, No  school, no lessons or homework. Then,there were the Morans,the youths, They wore black **** cloths, Carried a spear in one hand, Their faces were painted with white ochre. They protected the clan and the cattle, From predators and other tribes. They lived in a circle of huts called manyatta. After being circumcised the Morans were taught the art of warfare The bravest warrior got to wear the feathers of an ostrich. The senior morans could marry and settle down, The Moran who jumped the highest got the best girl. The Laigewenanis trained the morans to be warriors, My maasai was a laigwenani, Like all maasais, he was tall and lean, He wore a bright red shuka cloth with black stripes, A red tartan blanket was slung on his shoulder, He always held a long bladed stabbing spear, His long hair was tightly braided, He had ochre painted on his body, He had no children and treated me like his son, He would take me to teach the morans about warfare. But,he had to take the permission of the chief, the Laibon. The Laibons were the chief religious leaders, They settled disputes, They decided when and on whom to attack. Luckily,after two months my maasai and I had gone to a game reserve for hunting, A game warden found me. He alerted the police and I was taken home safely. But,I missed my maasai and their pastoral way of life.
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Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 5:12 PM UTC
salmabanu-hatim
Maasai Way Of Life
I live in Moshi,Tanzania, As a child,one day I got lost, A maasai took me to his home. He lived at the foothills of the majestic Mt.Kilimanjaro, His home was a kraal (hut) made of  stone,sticks and cow dung. I cried for my parents, So he fed me milk and blood from a cow, He pierced a hole in the cow's neck, He put a bamboo and told me to drink the blood, It was warm but I vomited, Gradually, I got used to it. The maasai's  way of life is communilism, Hunting,gathering and raiding neighbours cattle. Theirs is an age set system for men, The children look after the herd, I joined them having fun, No  school, no lessons or homework. Then,there were the Morans,the youths, They wore black **** cloths, Carried a spear in one hand, Their faces were painted with white ochre. They protected the clan and the cattle, From predators and other tribes. They lived in a circle of huts called manyatta. After being circumcised the Morans were taught the art of warfare The bravest warrior got to wear the feathers of an ostrich. The senior morans could marry and settle down, The Moran who jumped the highest got the best girl. The Laigewenanis trained the morans to be warriors, My maasai was a laigwenani, Like all maasais, he was tall and lean, He wore a bright red shuka cloth with black stripes, A red tartan blanket was slung on his shoulder, He always held a long bladed stabbing spear, His long hair was tightly braided, He had ochre painted on his body, He had no children and treated me like his son, He would take me to teach the morans about warfare. But,he had to take the permission of the chief, the Laibon. The Laibons were the chief religious leaders, They settled disputes, They decided when and on whom to attack. Luckily,after two months my maasai and I had gone to a game reserve for hunting, A game warden found me. He alerted the police and I was taken home safely. But,I missed my maasai and their pastoral way of life.
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Whispers I sent out to dawn latched on to the solitary sun to trail the arc of a common time in a sky the hue of gold in grass. The land leans on the baobab in a dust storm of wheels and lenses. Wheels and lenses. When the dust settles, I will dust my shuka and the goats will return home, to comfort my eyes that flow the spate of the Great Ruaha, seeping secretly into the baobab I have chores to do, a shuka to **** A shuka to **** Will they buy the beads I strung as I rocked Naeku on my back, to make circles of day and circles of night, as wide as the baobab, in the colour of clouds, the colour of sky. There's colour to stars in a darkened night. A darkened night. Killeleshua is fragrant in thousand leaves Am I not worth more than thirteen Zebu? The watering hole was flecked in hippos and the firewood is the colour of dusk abundantly generous as the baobab Time, a viscous passing of the sweetest honey. The sweetest honey.
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Apr 22, 2021
Apr 22, 2021 at 11:35 AM UTC
davinaesolomon
I lean against a Baobab
Whispers I sent out to dawn latched on to the solitary sun to trail the arc of a common time in a sky the hue of gold in grass. The land leans on the baobab in a dust storm of wheels and lenses. Wheels and lenses. When the dust settles, I will dust my shuka and the goats will return home, to comfort my eyes that flow the spate of the Great Ruaha, seeping secretly into the baobab I have chores to do, a shuka to **** A shuka to **** Will they buy the beads I strung as I rocked Naeku on my back, to make circles of day and circles of night, as wide as the baobab, in the colour of clouds, the colour of sky. There's colour to stars in a darkened night. A darkened night. Killeleshua is fragrant in thousand leaves Am I not worth more than thirteen Zebu? The watering hole was flecked in hippos and the firewood is the colour of dusk abundantly generous as the baobab Time, a viscous passing of the sweetest honey. The sweetest honey.
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