Small bird, big mark: Koki
- Kirsten Bamboulis
- Jul 1
- 3 min read
In memory of my cockatiel, Koki
In South African slang, a koki is a marker. A felt-tip pen. The kind you use to colour things in, to make your mark, or to bring something to life on a blank page. I didn't know, when I named my cockatiel, that the name would end up meaning something far bigger. That's the thing about animals: they have a way of shaping you quietly, without you realising it.
Koki was a small, pale yellow cockatiel with bright orange cheek patches and an enormous personality crammed into a very tiny body. He came into my life and never left.
Mornings with Koki were non-negotiable. Long before any alarm, he'd start whistling from beneath the cover of his little home: loud, proud and certain that the day could not begin without him in it. He was right, really. You'd lift the cover, and he'd be there, head already tilted, completely unbothered, as if to say: took you long enough.
"He had this way of tilting his head whenever I picked up my phone to take a photo. Not startled, just curious. Almost posing."
That head tilt became one of my favourite things about him. He wasn't shy; he was curious. He seemed to understand that something was being captured, and he leaned into it. I have photos of him mid-tilt, one eye trained on the lens, looking for all the world like he knew exactly what he was doing.
He liked to be near. When I studied, he'd settle close by and exist quietly; my smallest study buddy, occasionally punctuating a silence with a single whistle as if to check I was still paying attention. And when I moved, sometimes he'd move with me. I'd sway side to side, and he'd mirror it, this tiny synchronised dance we'd fall into without really thinking about it. That memory has never left me. The idea that an animal watches you so closely, trusts you so completely, that it starts to move as you do.
He'd also try to bite your fingers, for the record. Lovable, yes. Harmless, mostly. Very much his own creature with his own opinions, and those opinions were always loud.
"To know an animal is to understand that they are watching you just as carefully as you are watching them."
I think Koki is a little part of why I do what I do. Not just the name, though I smile every time I think about it, but the way he taught me about bonds and to pay attention to things. To notice the tilt of a head, the particular stillness before a whistle, the way a small creature can fill a whole room with its presence. When I sit down to illustrate a pet portrait, that's what I'm trying to find. Not just the markings or the colours, but the thing that makes that animal unmistakably themselves. The personality that their owner sees every single day and adores completely.
People often ask me how I manage to capture the character of an animal I've never met. Honestly? You have to pay attention to the small details and the stories. That's the bond I try to honour in every piece I make.
Koki was years of morning whistles and that perfect, portrait-ready head tilt. He was a marker, in every sense of the word. And I am so grateful he (along with my furry German Shepherd, who you'll hear more about soon) left his mark on me.
If you have a pet who's left their mark on you too, one whose personality you want captured, preserved, and treasured, I'd be honoured to illustrate them.