Party in the U.R.T

Yesterday was super African. Yes, every day is technically African now, but some days here are different. These ones are so rare and unlike my life at home that they’re nearly impossible to describe. But I’ll try. Disclaimer: vegetarians and animal lovers might not be super into the contents of this post. 

This weekend we threw a staff party to celebrate the new school year and the fantastic exam results we just received. All week the teachers have been seeping excitement because they know what a staff party means: nyama choma mbuzi. A whole roasted goat. This is a big deal here. There is a ritual to it. And frankly, it's expensive - by African standards anyway.

I decided early in the week that I wanted to be a part of the whole experience of buying and eating the goat, so on Thursday I went to the market while Sheb haggled with a number of Massai herders to find the perfect meal. Then I rode in the back of Kifaru (the name of our 4x4, which means Rhino) with Sheb and the terrified goat, who nuzzled it’s head in my lap in fear and licked my leg… I’m not sure why. Because I knew I’d later be eating it, I did my best not to attach much sentiment to the car ride lest it make the rest of the process much harder. However, I did forbid Faye from giving him a name when she tried. The goat lived at the school for a couple of days, where the groundskeeper and students took care of him — and chased him across campus when he ran away. We caught the tail end of this escape attempt, driving up to school just as the kids were wrangling him back in across the soccer field. 

Yesterday I woke up early and spent the morning scrambling to get some work done before everyone started showing up. I didn’t realize how many of them would come so early, but I should have guessed since they'd all been glowing about it all week. I was still working on the porch in my pajamas when Sheb and Ema rode up on a motorbike, sitting mishkaki with the goat between them (more on what that means here). He told me they’d laid down cloth between them all in case the goat decided to pee on the way. This sight itself was hilarious, but was made funnier to me as I immediately had an image of Harry and Lloyd riding frozen through Colorado: “Just go man.”

Within five minutes, four men had turned up and were preparing for the slaughter. They chopped down banana leaves from my backyard to make a blanket on which they would butcher the goat. The slaughter had to be performed by a Muslim so that our many Muslim staff could partake in the meal. As it turns out, the man who stopped by briefly to perform the ritual was a true master. While three of my colleagues held the goat down, he cleanly slit the throat and the goat bled out in moments. He didn’t scream or move. It felt very humane; as much as animal murder can be I guess. 

The goat killer was gone as quickly as he came and then Ema, our groundskeeper and resident butcher, got to work. He’s Massai and told me he’d been cutting up goats since he was a small boy - too many to count. The process of finding a knife sharp enough for the task at hand wasn't easy, but once we did it took him two hours to remove the skin, which came off in one piece, and carefully slice the pieces of meat apart. They eat it all. Every last bit. Liver, heart, intestines, tail.

Each part is prepared differently - the organs and ribs cooked on the barbecue, the haunches and legs roasted on sticks over a flame, the intestines and fat simmered long and slowly in a salty broth. The cooking began at around 1pm and until shortly before dark, the meat flowed freely. I’ve never seen more meat in my life. First came bites of spleen and heart; I didn’t try the former but the latter was surprisingly good. The texture was both tender and firm but the flavor was mild. Then slowly came the ribs, thighs and legs. It’s all cooked plain with no seasoning, but you squeeze lime over the meat and dip it in salt. Each piece had a completely different texture and taste, but every bite was fantastic. Every time a plate was emptied, Ema showed up with another. Each refill had some new cut to try, cooked to varying levels of rareness and always to perfection.

As we let our stomachs settle, we played corn hole with bags made from Masaii fabric. We drank straight from bottles of Konyagi, which is their cheap, local version of gin. Many teachers who "don’t drink" drank; what happens in the home is very different than what happens on the street. We had a dance party on our porch blasting mostly Bongo Flava songs on repeat. Many of the staff members don’t speak English so dancing together finally gave us a chance to become friends as we laughed and fist pumped to songs we only sometimes knew. We sent home teachers who got too drunk in tuk tuks. At some point I discovered someone had left the faucet running in the bathroom for god knows how long. I think someone else either threw up in the shower or cleaned piles of foliage from their body - this one I'm not totally clear on. The kitchen floor was an absolute disaster - caked in dirt from forty feet covered in African dust and sprinkled with oil from the massive loads of chips (fries) that Ma B made to accompany the meat. As the alcohol tapered, people slowly trickled out, some saying goodbye and some who just disappeared. Every last bit of the goat was eaten. Every last beer in the fridge was gone.

It was like any party I’ve ever hosted in the U.S. Except it wasn’t. Cause it was African.