My Grandfather and Skukuu
In the hills of Taita, where mornings arrived with mist on the trees and the smell of fresh earth, my grandfather—Somo, as we proudly called him—had many things he loved.
God.
Family.
Peace.
And then… there was Skukuu.
Now let me be clear:
Skukuu was not just a cow.
No.
That brown-and-white legend was practically family royalty.
Some cows belong to a home.
Skukuu belonged to Somo’s heart.
In fact, if love languages existed for cows, Skukuu’s was definitely quality time.
My grandfather had strict instructions concerning this animal—as if he knew the rest of the family could not be trusted with such greatness.
“No one slaughters Skukuu.”
Not “please don’t.”
Not “let’s discuss.”
No.
A full commandment.
And when Skukuu eventually died?
“Bury it next to me.”
Ladies and gentlemen…
This was not livestock.
This was a soulmate with hooves.
We grew up knowing there were rules in that compound.
Respect your elders.
Pray before meals.
And under no circumstances should anyone even look at Skukuu like nyama choma.
Honestly, if Skukuu had opposable thumbs, I’m convinced it would’ve signed inheritance papers.
Now here’s where things got even more suspicious…
This cow refused to be milked by strangers.
You could approach with the bucket, confidence, and full dairy ambition—
Nothing.
Dry.
Closed for business.
No service.
It would stand there looking at you like:
“Who are you?
Where is my person?”
But the moment Somo arrived?
Ah.
Different story.
Skukuu would transform.
One gentle touch from my grandfather and suddenly—
Niagara Falls.
Twenty litres!
TWENTY.
At this point, we weren’t sure if this was a cow or a marriage.
I mean honestly, what kind of loyalty was this?
Even some people ignore your texts after two dates, but Skukuu?
Skukuu said:
“No emotional connection, no milk.”
And we respected that.
Looking back now, I realize Skukuu may have had better standards than most of us.
That cow understood trust.
It understood familiarity.
It understood,
“I will not pour into people who do not know my soul.”
Deep, right?
Who knew a cow could teach boundaries?
I remember hearing a friend once say their family cow loved their mother so much that whenever she left, it stayed calm…
But the second it heard her voice from a distance?
MOOOOOOOO.
Not a normal moo.
An emotional one.
The kind that says:
“You came back.
I was trying to act strong, but this separation has been difficult.”
And honestly?
That tracks.
Because cows, unlike some people, never pretend about love.
They know their people.
They remember kindness.
Routine.
Presence.
Maybe that’s why Skukuu loved Somo so deeply—
Because my grandfather wasn’t just an owner.
He was consistent.
He fed it.
Protected it.
Spoke to it.
Probably had full man-to-cow motivational speeches at sunrise.
“Skukuu… produce.
This family believes in you.”
And produce it did.
You see, back then, animals were not just animals.
They were woven into the story of home.
They were part of the laughter.
Part of the discipline.
Part of the memories.
Skukuu wasn’t valuable because of milk alone.
Skukuu was loved because it represented something rare:
Loyalty.
In a world where everything now feels replaceable,
where people switch phones, jobs, cities, even friendships like playlists—
there’s something beautiful about remembering a cow that said:
“One man.
One touch.
That’s enough.”
And maybe that’s why this story still makes me laugh.
Because somewhere in Taita, under all that wisdom, discipline, and village greatness…
My grandfather really said:
“When I go…
My cow goes nowhere far.”
Legendary.
So here’s to Skukuu—
The cow.
The icon.
The emotionally unavailable dairy queen to everyone except Somo.
May we all one day be loved the way Skukuu loved our grandfather.
With loyalty.
With standards.
And with absolutely no milk for strangers.