To my goat: A fond farewell.

I feel native today, as the frolicking gekkos on my bedroom wall no longer has any effect on me or my sleep. I feel hesitant to say it out loud, however, as I sure that if I get cocky, Mother Nature will have something significantly larger to throw at me. I’m not sure how I will sleep with herds of wilderbeasts traversing my bed.

I am sad to say that my goat, given to me by the wonderful women of Kichanga, met with what I can only assume was a violent end today.
The threat of a barbecue had been looming over our heads like a delicious Sword of Damocles for about a week now, and I think the goat felt it too. Perhaps he was glad to get it over with. Death Row is not a pleasant place, especially if you’re a goat.
I don’t know the details of the deed itself, as the locals no doubt had me pegged as a sensitive soul and wanted to spare me the dirty details. In the desperate hours of night, my mind staged elaborate escapeplans all involving the goat and I ending up living the sweet life down Mexico-way. It would not be, and the goat went more or less gently into that sweet good night.
One the plus side, he was delicious.
The barbecue was a great do, with local delicacies, including the dreaded “fufu”. This is a shifty dish, which I would not like to meet down a darkened alley, much less looming at the edge of the buffet, like it was today. Not to lose face, I stocked up on other local favourites. Although pretty conservative in their nature, I did very much enjoy the deep fried sardines and the seared tilapia.
As the night wore on and we saw the bottom of many a bottle of store-grade sangria, my Swahili became quite fluent and I am pretty sure I agreed to sponsor the local footballteam with jerseys. I will train with them tomorrow to see if they’re up to snuff.