This archive report was first published on 21 October 2019.
It's that time of the year in rural villages, when the air is filled with excitement and anticipation. For Wa Hellen, a resident of a small village, the drama begins when her prized cow is about to give birth. The cow's udder is engorged with milk, and the teats are taut, ready to nurture and nourish a new life.
As the due date approaches, the village comes alive with activity. Neighbors gather to offer prayers, advice, and assistance. They knock on doors, concerned that the cow might be in labor, and offer to shine a torch towards the cow's vulva to confirm if the young one is about to arrive.
However, half the time, it's a false alarm, and the villagers gladly go back to bed, waiting for the morning to reconvene and analyze the false alarm. But when the real moment arrives, the whole neighborhood comes together, each one an expert in calf birth.
With the recent drought times, the cow is weak and lacking energy to push, even as the calf's legs are already halfway out. This is where everyone in the village claims to have a PhD in advanced veterinary medicine, with majors in cows' reproductive health.
They advise assembling a bowl of salty water, pliers, scissors, razor blade, soap, a bucket, an old blanket, an empty soda bottle, and sisal rope. The strong men hold the calf's legs and pull it out as the mother makes woeful moaning sounds.
With a 50 per cent degree of luck, all goes well, and both mother and child survive. The neighbors are entitled to daily updates on how the baby cow is doing and how much milk the mother is producing. They sip hot tea, analyzing the fat content of the milk and conducting a sensory taste for any off-flavor parameter.
After the milk supply dies down, they disappear, only to reappear the following year when the cow is pregnant again.
