When I was a small boy our family had a tradition that every December we would have a gathering at my grandfather’s house on the 25th. All the grandchildren, uncles, aunts and family members would come from all corners of the world for this special day as we celebrated Christmas together. This was a momentous occasion as we would all wear our new Christmas clothes and would see our nieces, nephews, cousins, aunts and grandmothers. As part of our celebrations there would also be gifts that would be given to each of the children from our clan which was called Bataung, which simply means “You Of The Lions”. This is our family crest, our coat of arms. But to us it means the world because it signifies who we are and where we come from.
This occasion was truly special where my grandfather would be the host and chairman. There was a full-on PA system with speakers and a microphone. The day would begin with a prayer and then a hymn would be sung, often started by my mother who has a really beautiful and melodic voice. She would belt out the first verse and there would be total silence as we listened to her gracious voice bellowing out into the congregation of lions and lionesses standing with pride. Once she got to the second verse we would all join in unison and sing to our hearts’ delight as if awakening the spirits of all Bataung who had come before us. As children, the excitement could not be contained as we knew the time of handing out gifts was near. However, we also knew that this time of gifts also meant that all of us had to go to the front and stand before the entire pride of lions to receive our Christmas present from my grandfather who was a tall, handsome man and truly looked like the leader of the pride.
My grandfather had a lifelike lion made by a taxidermist and it would stand majestically next to him, eyes wide and glistening from the light, mouth wide open with a slight snarl on its face. Giant teeth protruding from the jaws and a mane which touched the floor elegantly and combed to perfection. As children we were awestruck as we marveled at the king of the jungle right before our eyes. My grandfather would call out each of our names and we would have to go to the front, stand next to him and he would take our hand and put it on the lion’s head. We would then need to say who we were and then recite our family praise song, much like how they do when the president is about enter the Parliamentary chambers before the State of the Nation address.
Once you start, the entire family starts and the women ululate, the men whistle and the mothers clap and cry. My grandfather would then shake your hand and off you would run to the other kids to show off your Christmas present.
Lions have always had a very special place in my heart. I am of the lion and I take great pride in calling myself Motaung. So much so that, as soon as I was old enough, I got a tattoo of a lion’s head on my arm.
With all this being said, my heart broke when I saw what poachers were doing to lions. The brutal and barbaric way in which they were mutilating these majestic animals shattered my heart. A part of me broke and I lost all faith in humans, because I felt like they were doing this to me, to my family and to a symbol which gave me an identity and a sense of pride. It’s shameless that some sick person would butcher our family pride in such a horrific manner just so that they can sell the parts on the black market. We really need to dig deep and remind ourselves of the Native American saying: When the last tree is cut down, the last fish eaten, and the last stream poisoned, you will realize that you cannot eat money.
Robala ka khotso Motaung (|Rest in Peace, Motaung)