The Lion and the Goat

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© DEEJ

Mzee. That’s what the elders are called. He’s the one who showed me where to make the cut. The line he traced with the knife went right across its throat. The man with him repeated it as well but with further instruction. The language barrier was not strong enough to keep me from understanding. “Fast! Here… And here.”

He almost didn’t pass me the knife. It was my friends who reminded him that I agreed to the slaughter as we hogtied the unsuspecting goat. It was like a gang leader passing the pistol to the initiate to prove himself loyal by killing a rival. Those uninitiated, goading the goat's fate at my hands, stood with a few of the schoolchildren who were well accustomed to death for dinner.

With the knife in my hand, I said words in my head, understanding that this was still a sacrifice–a ritual. What I said will remain in my head but what I said out loud was the only question I had after my instructions in full Swahili and broken English. “Will it spray?” I asked. “Yes,” Mzee and his companion replied. 

I’ve seen a goat get its neck slit before. I was a child in Haiti and a goat my cousin named Chichi was brought to the front of the house on a busy street in Saint Marc. My uncle straddled it from behind and quickly sliced across its throat. Chichi’s blood sprayed into a bowl so I had no reason to doubt this nameless goat would be the same. My cousin would later ask where Chichi was, and those of us who knew he was in her stomach sniggered. 

The blade was so sharp it stuck to my skin when I touched its edge. Finishing feigning any further preparation, I held its mouth firmly with one hand while my Kenyan counterparts held the goat at the legs, which were now starting to get restless. I had stalled enough. It tried to buck so I grabbed a better hold on it. I felt us both brace ourselves for what came next. As with anything you’re nervous about doing, the best way to do it is to just do it. Fast, I remembered. I looked away. Not at the kids. Not my friends. I looked at nothing. Isn’t that what death is?

After a few strokes of the sharp blade across its neck it let out a cry. A cry to be seen. A final cry to let the world–me, specifically–know that it was there. A cry to let us know it was more than a meal. It was sentient and of the same god as me. So I looked at its open throat, spilling blood, then the contents of its stomach from the gaping red hole between its body and head. It was dead. A quick death would be the best I could offer. 

I kept slicing, trying to find a soft spot between the bones in its throat, almost oblivious to the second, “Here,” from my instructors. Mzee’s assistant took the knife from me and made sure I correctly cut where I was supposed to before getting a different knife and beheading the animal at the second, ‘Here.’ 

I told people I looked away at first as not to be sprayed with blood which was mostly true. Staring at something as you take its life should be reserved for an enemy; someone whose death you would revel in. A death so desired that you would not want to miss a moment, especially the moment its life leaves its vessel. This was not for my own amusement or curiosity but my contribution and immersion. Any empathy in my eyes would not change its fate.  

I’m not a staunch pacifist but, goat notwithstanding, I try not to kill anything. Not a fly. Not an ant. Not a spider. I would accidentally make exceptions for mosquitoes–splat–mostly out of a habit of retaliation. My prior Buddhist practice had influenced my life more than I knew but at the moment I agreed to take part in the preparation of livestock for sustenance, I became one of ancient Kenya; before Christianity replaced their gods.

After the head was removed, we hung its body by its hind legs from a tree. Mzee showed me how to remove its skin with surgical precision. Removing its innards came next while taking time to pour water down its bottom and watch as the brown inside it flushed through, turning its intestines clear for sausage casings. It was the second goat slaughtered that day, and for good reason. With two goats, we fed the entire village, from children to the mzees.

I felt a previously unknown sense of fulfillment when I saw the villagers lining up for food that evening. No matter your thoughts on eating animals, a village in an arid area of rural Kenya ate because of the sacrifice of two animals. Hundreds of people would go to bed with full bellies that night. While I could have just scooped up the goat stew and slopped it on their plates, I now had a much truer connection to the meal we served.

Those villagers may not have known that it was by my hand that the meat reached their plate. Maybe it’s not even that big of a deal. People eat meat everyday, B. Right now someone is biting into a burger without a second or first thought as to where it came from. There’s an intensely intimate process of death that happens in turning life into sustenance. Those who call themselves carnivores may never get to meet their meat while it still breathes but if each of them had to slaughter their own steak in order to enjoy it, I think we would see more vegetarians.

When we first engaged the students at Makutano Primary School they gave us all names. I felt I earned my name. Simba. To the western world it's a cartoon character that watched his father perish in a stampede, but to them–and now, me–it simply means lion. With the blood of the goat on my hands, its meat providing food for the village, I gained a better appreciation for the circle of life. 

(Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.)

Kids eat first.

Everybody eats.

Photos courtesy of Jonte Ceo.