By Maile Matsimela, African Farming Digital Editor
If farming is fundamentally about anything, it is about hope. Every seed planted is an act of faith in tomorrow, every animal bred is a belief in continuity. In a world increasingly characterised by instant gratification, farmers remain the great patrons of patience and perseverance.
This is why farming has always been and continues to be a profession of hope. It teaches us to work diligently today for harvests yet unseen. It reminds us that growth – whether of crops, animals or communities – requires both nurturing and time.
When the sun begins to set behind the tall trees and mountains, painting the African sky with hues of orange and crimson, a ritual as old as our ancestors unfolds across countless homesteads. It’s the moment when farmers count their blessings – not in currency, but in the soft bleating of goats and sheep, the gentle lowing of cattle, and the rustling of maize stalks swaying in the evening breeze.
I still remember the first question my late maternal great-grandfather would ask upon returning home each evening: “Are all the animals in the kraal?” This simple inquiry carried the weight of generations of wisdom. It wasn’t merely about accounting for livestock; it was about responsibility, care and an unspoken covenant between human and animal. His question, as I grew older, taught me that farming isn’t just an occupation but also a sacred bond of stewardship.
Growing up in Hwibi, Ga-Matlala in the 1980s, like all boys in our village, I was a shepherd before I was anything else. Our families measured their blessings in livestock, and the responsibility of tending to goats and cattle fell upon young shoulders. During weekends and school holidays, we would lead our animals to grazing lands at dawn, watchful eyes scanning for predators while childish games kept us entertained through long days under the sun.
The warm sensation of milk streaming from udder to bucket, the rhythmic squeezing motion perfected through practice, and the satisfied smile when presenting a bucket full of milk to the household – these were moments of pure connection, untainted by market considerations. We learned to milk cows before we understood the economics of dairy production.
There is an indescribable peace in knowing that as darkness covers the land, your animals are safely enclosed, well-fed and content. This satisfaction transcends mere ownership; it speaks to a relationship of mutual dependence and respect that has sustained African communities for millennia.
In our tradition, animals were never merely livestock; they were extensions of our families. We named each one of them, recognised their unique personalities and mourned their passing. When they fell ill, our ancestors applied traditional remedies passed down through generations – knowledge born from centuries of observation and intimacy with the natural world.
I vividly remember the ingenuity of our traditional veterinary practices, particularly when treating livestock with broken limbs. When a goat or cow suffered a fracture, we wouldn’t resort to slaughter as the first option. We would carefully align the injured bone and create an improvised splint using sturdy sticks positioned on both sides of the leg. These natural splints were then bound tightly with strips of cloth or plant fibres, while a special poultice made from indigenous medicinal plants was applied directly to the injury.
Our crops, too, were tended with similar devotion. The soil wasn’t simply a growing medium but a living entity that required reverence and care.
In Ga-Matlala, we practiced a form of sustainable agriculture long before such terms entered our vocabulary. Each year followed a sacred rhythm: during the summer growing season, our livestock were carefully directed to designated grazing lands away from the village farms where crops flourished; come winter, after harvest, these same animals would be permitted to graze freely among the farm fields, their hooves turning over soil and their manure naturally fertilising the earth for the next planting cycle. As children tending these animals, we didn’t recognise this as the sophisticated soil rotation technique that modern agronomists now advocate for – we simply followed the wisdom of our elders, obeying rules that maintained harmony between cultivation and animal husbandry.
After spending 17 years of my life in the media as a journalist, covering everything from politics to entertainment, my transition to agricultural reporting over the past five years has been nothing short of a blessing in disguise. While I may not till the soil or tend to livestock as a primary farmer, I sleep peacefully each night knowing that my words and stories contribute to the prosperity of an industry that feeds our nation. Through my pen, I’ve found purpose in amplifying the voices of those who work the land and advocating for innovations that ensure food security for generations to come.
This connection to agriculture isn’t merely professional – it’s deeply personal. It was during those formative years in Ga-Matlala that the seeds of agricultural appreciation were planted in my heart – a love cultivated through daily communion with animals and land, through understanding rain patterns and recognising the first sprouts of wild edibles. Though my path led me through newsrooms rather than farmlands, that shepherd boy has found his way back to his roots, only now herding stories instead of livestock, yet serving the same beloved agricultural community.
Today, across South Africa, we’re witnessing a remarkable phenomenon. Many who left their villages for urban opportunities are finding themselves drawn back to the land. They return not just with nostalgia but with newfound appreciation for the wisdom embedded in traditional farming practices. They come back to resume this precious activity – not as a step backward, but as a reclamation of identity and purpose.
I, too, have experienced this pull. After establishing egg chickens and growing various crops on my family land in Mohlaletse Ga-Sekhukhune – an operation I unfortunately had to pause due to personal circumstances – I understood more deeply what my childhood experiences in school gardens had been teaching me all along: Farming is not just about production; it’s about connection.
What makes contemporary African farming so exciting is not an abandonment of tradition but its harmonious integration with scientific innovation. Today’s farmer stands with one foot firmly planted in ancestral wisdom and the other stepping confidently into technological advancement.
Where our grandparents relied exclusively on traditional methods to cure sick livestock, we now have the benefit of veterinary medicine. Where they read the stars and seasonal patterns to time their planting, we can access meteorological data and soil analysis. Regenerative farming practices, improved seed varieties and sustainable water management systems enhance what our ancestors began.
Yet the essence remains unchanged. The scientific tools are merely extensions of the same fundamental love for the land and its creatures that drove our forebears to innovation in their own time. The farmers who vaccinate their herds do so with the same care as the elder who once applied herbal poultices. The agriculturalist who studies crop rotation continues the tradition of those who learned to nurture soil fertility through generations of trial and error.
The digital age has not diminished this truth but has amplified it. Through online communities, African farmers now share knowledge across vast distances. Market information flows to remote villages via mobile phones. Young people document traditional farming methods on social media, preserving ancestral knowledge while adapting it to contemporary challenges.
As we face the challenges of climate change, population growth and food security, African farming stands at a crucial crossroads. Our path forward must honour the emotional and cultural dimensions of agriculture while embracing the scientific advancements that can enhance productivity and sustainability.
This means recognising that farming is not merely an economic activity but a cultural cornerstone. It means understanding that the joy a young boy feels while milking cows is just as important as the milk production statistics. It means acknowledging that the pride in seeing all animals safely in the kraal at nightfall is a value worth preserving alongside modern management systems.
The most successful African farmers of tomorrow will be those who can integrate these dimensions – who can harness science without sacrificing soul. They will be those who understand that technological innovation works best when it enhances, rather than replaces, the fundamental relationship between farmer, animal and land.
A complete agricultural sector is one that values both the measurable and the immeasurable. It counts yields and profits but also stories and traditions. It embraces scientific research alongside indigenous knowledge. It recognises efficiency but not at the expense of connection.
As we move forward, let us remember that what makes African farming unique is not just what we produce but how and why we produce it. The love of animals and crops that was instilled in us as youngsters remains our greatest asset – an inheritance more valuable than any equipment or technique.
When my great-grandfather asked about the animals in the kraal, he was teaching me more than livestock management; he was passing on a legacy of care that no textbook could contain. As we build the future of African agriculture, let us ensure such legacies continue to be passed down, enriched by science but never replaced by it.
For in the end, it is this harmony – between tradition and innovation, between heart and mind, between past and future – that will make our agricultural sector truly complete with each one of us playing their role.
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