During an afternoon game drive, a few weeks ago, we passed by a shallow pan, its surface reduced to dark sticky mud after weeks without rain. There, half-hidden in the thickets, a kudu bull stepped forward. He lowered his magnificent spiral horns and began to thrash them through the mud, twisting and grinding with deliberate force. The sight of this large Kudu bull, and his behaviour around this mud-wallow made me think about the reasons these animals practice such deliberate behaviours.

Like so many behaviours in the bushveld, this act carries more than one layer of meaning. It is not only a display of strength and dominance but also a signal to rivals, a potential attractant to females, and even a way of altering scent. The kudu, often described as the “grey ghost” for its elusive movements, reveals much about its social world in this seemingly small action.

Weapons Worthy of Display

The kudu bull stepped out from behind the bush, before rubbing his horns in the mud, and the first thing that caught my eye was his horns. They curved up and out in two and a half perfect spirals, catching the soft afternoon light. Up close, they looked almost unreal—like something carved by hand. It’s easy to see why these horns are such a big deal. They’re not just weapons; they’re a statement.

A kudu bull stands tall and proud on the side of this termite mound.

You can actually tell a lot about a bull by the shape of its horns. Young bulls start off with straight-pointing horns, nothing too impressive. But as they grow older, the spirals slowly form, and by the time they reach their prime, the horns are fully curled—long, strong, and striking.

Two younger kudu males. With horns of different shapes and sizes, this photograph is a beautiful illustration of the speed and cycle in which the horns will grow and spiral during their lives.

When bulls fight, they don’t just crash into each other. Those spirals fit together almost perfectly, letting them push and test each other’s strength without causing serious injury. It’s more of a power match than an all-out brawl. Watching this bull standing tall, it felt clear: his horns weren’t just for fighting. They were a sign of his age, strength, and place in this landscape.

The bull lowered his head into the pan, scooping up a thick layer of mud onto his horns. It wasn’t just any mud — it had that strong, earthy smell, mixed with the scent of all the animals that had passed through before. You could almost smell it from where we were sitting. As he lifted his head again, the dark sludge clung to each spiral, turning those already impressive horns into something even more striking.

Then he started moving slowly through the thickets, brushing his mud-caked horns against branches as he went. It was subtle, but with every step, he was leaving a message behind. To another bull, it would be clear: “Someone big is here.” To a female, it might mean something different — a sign of strength, maturity, and the kind of dominance that matters out here.

He suddenly paused, turned toward a small shrub, and with no hesitation, went into a full-on thrash. Horns slammed against stems, bark flew, and bits of mud sprayed through the air. Leaves tore loose and hung from his spirals like wild decorations. It wasn’t just random aggression — it was a show. A display of power and control, of a bull that knows his worth.

Standing there, chest broad and horns dripping with mud and bark, he looked every bit the dominant male. No loud call needed, no fight required, just a quiet, powerful statement left written on the landscape itself.

Two younger Kudu males practice sparring against one another. This ritual of sizing each other up will hold great purpose as the Kudu age and establish hierarchical dominance among the group.

For younger bulls, this may act as practice, rehearsing the physical exertion needed for real confrontations. For dominant bulls, it becomes an advertisement of their dominance. The sight of a mud-crowned kudu, branches dangling from his spirals, is one of raw, elemental presence.

In a separate sighting a few weeks ago, we were lucky enough to observe two Kudu bulls on opposite sides of the clearing, their ears flicking forward, bodies tense but still. There was no charge, no chaos, just a quiet, heavy standoff. You could feel the tension in the air. Instead of rushing at each other, they began to circle slowly, heads held high, those spiralled horns catching the light. It was like watching two boxers size each other up before the first punch.

One bull stepped closer to a shrub and started thrashing it with force, bark and leaves flying in every direction. The sound echoed through the bush, a raw, physical display. He wasn’t attacking the other bull; he was making a point. Bigger horns, more mud, more power. The second bull didn’t back down immediately, but you could see him taking it all in, weighing up whether this was a fight worth having.

That’s the beauty of kudu behaviour, they don’t always need to lock horns to settle things. Those spirals might be stunning, but if they tangle the wrong way, it can end badly for both. So, these displays — the circling, the thrashing, the posturing — they’re like a language. Most of the time, it’s enough to sort out who’s boss without a single blow.

During the rutting season, every display carries weight. Access to females depends on proving strength, but smart bulls do it without wasting energy or risking injury. Pans and damp patches become the stage for these performances, the mud not only adds to the spectacle but also shows whose controlling the best real estate.

For those fortunate enough to witness a kudu bull engaged in this ritual, the impression is lasting. The quiet dignity of these antelope is transformed into something fierce, almost theatrical. The spiral horns, already among the most striking features in the animal kingdom, become living symbols of strength and vitality.