Until their government switched off the youth’s TikTok and Gram in early September, sparking a “revolution”, I knew very little about Nepal. In scenes that should have knocked the feather off our Vat Whisperer’s Homburg hat, their minister of finance, Bishnu Paudel, was dragged through the streets of Kathmandu in his tanga briefs during the upheavals.
Anyway, this is how I got to discover a beautiful Nepalese ritual that occurs on Kukur Tihar, the second day of a Hindu festival. The Nepalese adorn the foreheads of their canine companions with a red tika to honour the god of death, Yama.
In November 2012 I penned an ode to my family’s recently departed four-legged companion, titled “So long Spiderman” in this newspaper. Sanctimonious keyboard “Africanists” dragged me through the virtual streets of the socials in my boxers for my “un-African” outpouring of grief over a “mere dog”. I’ll repeat my retort from 13 years ago: Despite our many commonalities, only a malfunctioning mind assigns homogeneity to the diverse 3,000-plus peoples with 2,000-plus languages from Cape Agulhas to Tunisia’s Ras Ben Sakka. They can kiss me where the sun don’t shine.
Last week, the four-legged matriarch of our household, Bengeta, stopped eating altogether. She had also taken to digging holes on the lawn and attempting to bury herself. About an hour before her 10am vet appointment, I was woken up by Buster, her son, frantically scratching on the window. A visibly upset Buster was barking madly and “pointing” at his seemingly dazed mother in the corner of the garden.
I had to carry her into the vet’s rooms. He asked how old she was — nearly 13 and said Labrador retriever mixed breeds don’t usually live that long. He examined her and gave my lastborn Sihayo and me that dreaded look. Diagnosis: time to let go. Our options? Take her home to say our goodbyes as a family or rescue her from unnecessary pain. I’m avoiding eye contact with the boy. Two sets of eyes are leaking profusely. The decision to assist her dying when the time came was taken collectively, more than two years ago.
In the ‘90s, I often overheard my mother castigate the only other Labrador retriever in our lives, Robin (1992 – 2001), with 'Umuntu ke lokhu? [What kind of human are you?]’. Twenty-four years later, I get it.
In the interests of declaring my biases, I’ve been a firm proponent of assisted dying for the human species for about two decades. At 10.23am on October 4, Bengeta took her last breath. It took all of two minutes. Outside, we embraced for what seemed like an eternity. The end of another era. Throughout the weekend, we took turns sharing memories of her. The firstborn, Ntobeko, summed her up beautifully in a WhatsApp chat from Durban, where he works: “It’s quite remarkable that we all remember how kind she was, considering that dogs are generally that way disposed.”
Having observed my species for 53 years, I believe some dogs are more human than certain people. It’s probably a testament to my verbose nature that some of the best conversations I’ve ever had in my life were with Bengeta, her paws and head resting on my lap after I arrived home from the graveyard shift at Power FM. An attentive listener, not prone to interjections.
Calling people dogs is a cross-cultural slur across the globe. But it’s an insult to some dogs. Dogs would never steal money meant for dialysis machines for poor people and use it to buy Lamborghinis.
African-Americans have reappropriated the N-word, “devenomised” it for use among themselves and a privileged few Caucasians such as Eminem and Quentin Tarantino. And calling people a dog has been turned into a compliment for super athletes such as Michael Jordan, boxer Terence Crawford and Lionel Messi. South African Gen Zs known as Skrr-Skrr on account of their Model C and private school accents call each other “dawg”. My daughter Samafuze addresses me as “dawg” when she feels like testing my “cool”. And I have yet to hear of a complaint from the Zulu Royal Household about Skrr Skrrs referring to the Zulu monarch as “Bayede Dawg”.
In the ‘90s, I often overheard my mother castigate the only other Labrador retriever in our lives, Robin (1992 – 2001), with ’Umuntu ke lokhu? [What kind of human are you?]’. Twenty-four years later, I get it. RIP Bengeta Ngcobo. I’ve been playing that song you used to wag your tail to, Over My Shoulder by Mike and the Mechanics, on repeat since last Sunday. October 20 is the next Kukur Tihar. I’ll be adorning your son Buster’s forehead with a red tika, in your remembrance, and he will feast like a king.
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