The donkey race competition in the Lamu cultural festival
*Images: author’s own
Any time the earth is tickled with a hoe, it laughs with a harvest. Abu, a one-eyed, stuttering young man, was announced the winner of the donkey race in the annual Lamu cultural festival. I cheered him at the top of my voice because he won against my enemy during my stay on Lamu Island.
Satan, a man I never quite understood, exhibited excited donkeys, cats, and dogs on his social media. His Instagram account Aswad Uhuru, was filled with images of donkeys chewing miraa (khat), and some were riding on a dhow. Satan and Abu had a deeper affection for donkeys than rubies. I recalled Satan greeting people cheerfully and patting the backs of the donkeys. The herd of donkeys raised their nose to smell his bald head. He rode on the backs of donkeys, accompanied by the clowder of cats and a pack of dogs. This animal offered a watchful eye to Satan even at night. Indeed, when you raise a leopard, don’t be upset when it eats your goat. I saw some donkeys tied in separate sections along the vichochoro of Lamu’s old town. Some donkeys were hidden in dark corners listening to the rhythms of drumbeats from a nearby house. Young men were spotted reciting Quran texts to the donkeys. Some old men in kikoi were feeding a herd of donkeys with natural herbs like hibiscus, string green, aloe vera, and turmeric. I watched some young girls dressed in hijab and buibui bathing a restless donkey in a pool of water.
The strange noises in the neighborhood never let me get a night’s sleep. The night was filled with a noisy stampede of running donkeys, the low murmuring of the Arabic language, and the furious sound of whips landing on the donkeys. I trembled with fear and wet my shorts. I drew a basket under the bed and called for the short call. I then switched on the fan to cool my body.
Most Swahili houses have latrines located five meters away from the house. My house was noisy with the fan rotating, but the donkey grunting persisted louder. The whips landed on the body of the donkey like rain hitting the iron sheet roof. I reclined on my bed, with my stomach down. I turned right, rolled left, and eventually jumped out of bed at the loud sounds of donkey squealing, whiffling, and snorting.
I tiptoed six steps like a baboon toward my intricately designed door. I peeped through a cracked door to see what was happening outside at night. Gosh! I saw the familiar face lying on top of a donkey. The mouth was busy chewing gumbas (chewing gum), muguka, and miraa (khat). He held a bakora (a rod), fiercely beating the donkey while murmuring “ushike adabu” (have respect). The donkey was snorting in extreme pain. Upon noticing unusual movement towards my door, I quickly tightened my door with a large bar next to it. I went back to my bed feeling sympathy for the donkey. The whipping inflicted muscle injuries on the head of the donkey and wounds on its back. I pondered on the word “ushike adabu” and wondered why the neighbors never came to rescue the donkey from inhumane acts. These thoughts lingered in my mind until today.
No sooner had I fallen asleep than I was awakened by the sound of “Allah Hu Akbar.” A call for Morning Prayer at Friday Mosque. Within seconds, I heard a piercing whistle in the air. Initially, I thought there was a football match on my house wall-mounted television. Then I heard the stampede of a herd of donkeys running in a particular direction. I quickly woke up and ran to the veranda. I saw young people in kofias (Islamic hats) and their favorite football jerseys making their way in one direction. They were cheering a group of young men riding on a herd of donkeys. It was not cheering Arsenal winning against Manchester United at Emirates Stadium. The whistle blew again after two minutes, and a man shouted, “Mashindano,” meaning “competition.” The crowd erupted with jubilation for the upcoming donkey race competition. I quickly put on my favorite Arsenal football jersey, placed the camera on my neck, and joined the cheering crowd. It was the most exciting day.
The jockeys rested on the backs of a herd of donkeys, ready for the race competition. The donkeys were clad in white fabric emblazoned with symbols of Lamu eyes. They were marked with bold alphabetic letters to identify the donkey’s owner. The jockeys wore differently colored T-shirts with their names written: Abu, Halifa, Omar, and others. On the back of their T-shirt, read “Lamu Tamu,” followed by the italicized words “Utamaduni Kisiwani.” The jockeys were composed, and their minds were fixed on winning the title race for the next phase.
The jockeys were instructed in Swahili to cover a distance of one thousand meters along the seafront. They were also told to race at least three to four rounds to qualify for the semi-final. The instructor emphasized the word “mchunjo” for semi-finalists to qualify for the finals. The instructor blew the whistle, and jockeys raced their donkeys at high speed like lightning striking the Columbus sky.
Only two jockeys qualified for the final competition. They both carried the title of the win, but it never meant they were both winners of the title that day. The sun was beating down on our foreheads, and everyone was pouring sweat heavily. The race had taken a healthy break, preparing for the Mothers of War battle. People flocked to the nearby binti barafu (a lady juice seller) to cool their bodies from the scorching sun. The atmosphere was filled with confused murmurs from the defeated crowds on one side and jubilation from the winning crowd. The instructor blew the whistle to signal the final race. The jockeys were sure that the wind would not break a tree that bends. They wereprepared for the challenges ahead and anticipated a victory.
Within an hour, a loudspeaker in the crowd shouted: “washindi” (final competition), and the instructor blew the final whistle. I looked for the best location where I would place my camera to capture the donkey race. I desired to have the best shot like a great photographer, Sir Samuel Phillips. So, I headed to a nearby building and set up my camera, ready to snap classic photos. Meanwhile, the crowd was swelling with cheering opponents. Suddenly, a naval officer in plain clothes brandished a gun at my head. I panicked, and my kofia fell down on the ground. l quickly pulled out my university badge, pretending to be an undercover police officer. He retrieved his gun and apologized, “pole Afisa” (sorry officer). He went on to clear the line to place my camera for the donkey race.
I focused my camera on the jockeys sitting on their donkeys, ready for the race. I spotted a familiar face. It was a young man who had been whipping the donkey all night. He was the same one-eyed, stuttering young man I met on my first visit to Lamu Island. His red t-shirt was printed with the bold letters “Abu.” His donkey stood calmly waiting for a whistle to blow. The other contender was the son of Sir Mwenzangu. His white shirt was branded “Halifa.” The boy who stoned me during a viral argument at Mkunguni. I quickly turned to the whistleblower. It was Sir Mwenzangu.
I zoomed out to capture crowds cheering, “Abu!, “Abu!”. Other groups were chanting “Lamu Tamu!” while singing, oyaa yee oyaa yee!” and dancing to ngoma la Lamu (Swahili drumbeats). At that moment, a heavy troop of armed navy personnel pushed people aside to clear the path for the race. They were assisted by county security personnel dressed in reflective uniforms labeled “Usalama” (Security).
The whistle blew loudly, and the donkey began to growl and grunt. The jockey took off at the swiftness of a falcon. I quickly focused my camera and captured the donkey sprinting like an antelope chased by a leopard. I lost several shots of the jockeys racing the donkey. My shots captured a county officer rushing to rescue a zombie loitering on the racing path. Within a minute, the jockey returned at high speed. I randomly photographed the jockey in action when Halifa’s donkey came straight into the eye of the camera. I quickly turned the camera side. I narrowly avoided a violent kick from Halifa’s donkey.
The crowd erupted in laughter when whistleblower Sir Mwenzangu rushed to rescue his son. Jockey Halifa was flying high in the sky like a kite and tumbled down on the ground like a sack. His donkey returned to charge him with furious kicks. He rose quickly in embarrassment and sped off towards the nearby mosque. Everyone cracked their ribs, and a woman wailed loudly, calling his name. I guess that was his newly wedded wife or his mother. Meanwhile, Abu emerged as the winner of the donkey race competition. His supporters chanted “Abu!” while carrying him high on their shoulders. They were singing, oyaa yee oyaa yee!” and dancing around him. The crowd made a procession to the organizers at the dais. Abu rode remorsefully alongside his donkey.
Abu was declared the winner of the Lamu cultural festival donkey race and presented with a prize worth US dollar $1,500 in cash. The organizers were drawn from UNESCO officials, the county government of Lamu, and local residents. They gave a speech praising Abu and the periodic organization of the Lamu cultural festival. They noted that the donkey race was among cultural competitions that preserve the unique culture of the Swahili community on Lamu Island.
The county government pledged to support Lamu cultural festival activities, such as the dhow and the donkey race competition. The National Agency for the Campaign against Drug Abuse (NACADA) also pledged to support the donkey race competition. The aim was to use donkey race competition to prevent men of Lamu Island from abusing ungas’ (drugs such as bhang, heroin, and cocaine).
The Lamu Animal Welfare also cautioned young people to handle the donkeys with care. They requested the county government to tarmac the donkey paths with smooth and soft surfaces. They later presented Abu with a whip-proof jacket to protect the donkey from harsh whips.
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