the goat

[Transposed from the journal I kept while in Africa]

The hut is made of sticks. When we enter, I'm not sure if I'm in someone's home or a public place. Daudi tells me I'm in a tea house, the closest thing to a restaurant in Engaruka - a dusty village without electricity down a bumpy, washboard road. We have come to wait on our leg of goat. Through the sticks of the back wall, I see raw goat hanging. Beyond that, a fire pit made of rocks cooks the goat.

A few minutes later a Maasai warrior, William, enters the hut with our leg of goat. I can't tell whether it is cooked or not. Once William slices into it with the spear he takes from his hip, I see the meat is cooked. A young child server sets out a platter with salt for us to eat the goat from. Williams slices tiny pieces onto the place. The child server brings a bowl, soap and pitcher to us. We wash. I pluck goat from the plate, as William continues to slice it.

Deep breath. Not bad. The next bite I try with salt. Better.

I look up and see William and another Maasai man gnawing on the two bones from our leg. I maintain my appetite. While eating, a stick falls from the wall and stabs me in the arm. It bleeds a little. I eat several more pieces, some better than others. I don't like the fatty ones or the ones that put a bitter, sour goat taste on my tongue. I look for the well done pieces with parts of roasted skin still attached. You can taste the fire in these bites, as I did with my morning chai. Soon, the goat is gone.

As the girl who once only ate a "kid food" diet (macaroni and cheese, PB & J and chicken nuggets), I have served my penance.