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DAKAR: The regal creatures are led into the open arena, stamping their groomed hooves as if to acknowledge the cheers, music and fireworks from the crowd of spectators. Their majestic figures embody pride and status, their towering size, prominent muzzle, curved horns and polished skin on full display as night falls.
Welcome to one of Senegal’s most anticipated beauty pageants – not for humans but for the locally bred Ladoum, the equivalent of a Ferrari among the woolly creatures.
The annual contest featured more than a dozen Ladoum, competing in three different categories as adult male, adult female and young/promising.
As each sheep is led into the open arena, a panel of judges note down their points based on distinct features like beauty, size, height, horns and body texture for each round. Winners, announced at the end, are rewarded with food and cash prizes.
This year’s Best Male Adult sheep is Prive, 1 year and 7months old, whose breeder estimated him to be worth more than $100,000 in the market.
“It feels good to be here, I cherish him so much,” Isaiah Cisse, Prive’s breeder said with a wide grin as he massaged the sheep for a successful outing.
Unlike the more common sheep eaten and used as sacrifices during Muslim celebrations, the crossbreed Ladoum are mainly seen as a living, breathing symbol of social prestige and luxury bred for years before they are sold.
Widely known as one of the world’s most expensive sheep, the older ones usually fetch a price of $70,000, compared to $250 for a regular sheep, and attract buyers from around the world to this West African nation of 18 million people, where livestock is a key source of livelihood.
Mostly weighing up to 400 pounds (181 kilograms) and up to 4 feet (1.21 meters) in height, the Ladoum are known for their physical grandeur with curling and symmetrical horns and lustrous sheen.
As the contest unfolded in Senegal’s capital, Dakar, each sheep is announced before it is led by the breeder onto an elevated stage where it is inspected by the judges, to the elation of the crowd.
Each receives joyful chants from a band troupe, featuring the local Senegalese instrumental Assiko music with the sheep’s praise names ringing out aloud.
“You can’t see a sheep like this in Africa or even in the world,” said Elhadji Ndiaye, a member of the judging panel. “Ladoum is special.”
Many agree with him.
Musa Faye, a 22-year-old breeder, said his 18-month-old sheep was named Diomaye, after Senegalese President Bassirou Diomaye Faye, to show the sheep’s significance for him and his family.
“I spend a lot of time with him and play with him,” Faye said of his sheep. “I am preparing him for the next competition because I know he will win (the trophy),” he added.
The contest, which has been running for some years, took place alongside an exhibition that featured even young breeders like Ibrahim Diagne. At 12, he is anticipating bringing his Ladoum for the contest someday.
“My parents like this and have always done it, so I like it too,” Diagne said of his passion for the family’s sheep rearing business.
Such passion is common in Senegal where sheep rearing is an age-old tradition deeply woven into family life and culture.
Even animal traditions are passed down through the generations.
Maniane Ndaw’s prized sheep Alou won this year’s Best Junior Male, following in the footsteps of the sheep’s father who won several titles.
“For me, it’s a great, great pleasure,” Ndaw said. “It shows that the lineage is a good one.”

ABUJA: The first strikes in Dambe are thrown before the boxers even leave their house.
Fighters don charms and amulets, dye their fist or even score their arm with a razor, inserting traditional medicine before it scars over — all guaranteed to protect them in the ring or deliver a knock-out punch.
Combined with prayers from “mallams,” or spiritual guides, they are unstoppable — not just in Nigeria, but increasingly around the world.
The Dambe World Series kicked off in Abuja, Nigeria’s capital, on Saturday in the latest evolution of a sport that traces its roots back centuries among west Africa’s Hausa speakers.
“Instead of trying to Westernize it, or instead of trying to make it something else, for us the goal is to professionalize it,” said Maxwell Kalu, founder of the West African Fighting Championship, the group organizing the tournament.
At the same time, a key goal is also “opening the door in terms of inviting people to compete in Nigeria.”
Held on the ground of the national stadium and broadcast by DAZN, a British sports streaming service, the tournament is a far cry from the social tradition said to have been organized by 10th-century Hausa butchers.
“This one is big, I’m very happy,” said Abdullahi “Coronavirus” Ali, a 20-year-old who has been fighting since he was a child. “The audience is growing every day.”
As Coronavirus — nicknamed for his ferocious punches — spoke to AFP, two amateur fighters worked the ring behind him, in a pre-tournament exhibition match in Dei Dei, a working-class Abuja exurb.
Chickens pecked under the rickety wooden stands while cigarette smoke wafted above the crowd.
In Dambe, in lieu of a glove, the fighters each have one fist tightly bound in rope — their striking arm. The other hand reaches out, feeling the space between the opponents and looking for something to grab or parry before the fighting arm whips forward as if from a loaded spring.
Amid the blows, one fighter lost his balance and fell — a “kill.” The round was over.
Dambe might have once seemed destined to be confined to the margins in places like Dei Dei as Abuja’s elite paved over anything standing in the way of modern skyscrapers and highways.
But slowly, the government has taken more interest in preserving and promoting the sport, as have private groups like the WAFC.
With the advent of YouTube and Instagram, Dambe now attracts fans across the world, with one promoter telling BBC in 2017 that 60 percent of his viewers were outside Nigeria.
The sport has also grown at home.
In 2018, a Dambe match in the southern city of Lagos drew spectators curious about their northern countrymen’s pastime — and excited to see it in a proper stadium.
Earlier this month, athletes from across the continent descended on the megacity for the African Knockout Championship, a Western-style mixed martial arts tournament.
But Kalu envisions the opposite: foreigners making their way to witness a distinctively Nigerian way of fighting.
Professionalization also brings the opportunity to bring in safety protocols and stable salaries to the otherwise unregulated sport.
“If I get married, I won’t allow my children to do it,” said Usman Abubakar, 20, his fist dyed a dark henna color and arm replete with charmed scars, recalling an injury to the chest that saw him sit out for two years.
Saturday’s fighters were competing to represent Nigeria in what is envisioned as a multi-stage, international series.
Boxers took to a sand-filled ring under stadium lights, with matches interspersed with musical acts and commercial breaks.
“Coronavirus” and his opponent danced around each other, sweat glistening, looking for an opening. He landed a blow, sending a tensed crowd into cheers as spectators overcame their urge to wince in shared pain.
“It’s somehow scary, but I do enjoy it,” said Joy Beatrice, a 30-year-old forestry officer in the stands.
Last year, supported by the WAFC, British national Luke Leyland traveled from Liverpool to compete in a Dambe match — reportedly the first white fighter to ever do so.
He was “destroyed,” according to one local media report, though he wrote positively of the experience.
Nigerian fighters remain cool on the idea of sharing the spoils of victory.
Asked what would happen if non-Nigerians started competing, “Coronavirus,” Abubakar and a third fighter, Anas Hamisu, were all excited at the prospect of more people embracing their sport.
But they also all shared the same prediction: the Nigerians would win.