Leave it to the goats to decide to go missing the same week we made a plan to start fencing in their pasture.
Our goats have previously spent the night away, during days when we would leave during the afternoon and they would get forgetful and wander too far off to return before dark. (In our community this time of year, everyone’s livestock is let to roam free on the fallow farms before plowing and planting start again.) In the mornings after they did that, Omari would go hunt them down and find them at a neighbor’s or in the hills nearby. But this time, they couldn’t be found anywhere. We called our various neighbors and fellow goatkeepers to keep an eye out, but not a single person had seen them.
The goats went missing on a Tuesday. Goats are sold to slaughter at the market on Wednesday.
Wednesday morning, I got up early and headed to the market. I was so early that there were only three measly goats standing in the auction section. I eyed them and knew they weren’t ours, then headed back to the motorcycle spare parts shop where I charge my phone and laptop. There I waited anxiously for morning to turn to noontime and the auction lot to fill. I told our motorcycle taxi friend that our goats had gone missing and that I was keeping an eye out for them at the market. He himself was convinced that they had been stolen. I took his words with a grain of salt, but as time wore on I heard more and more stories of how many goat thieves there were these days and I started to think they might indeed have been stolen.
As noon approached I went back to the auction lot, where there were now hundreds of goats and sheep among the many-splendored young Masai men in every color and shade of plaid “shuka”, which is what the fabrics the Masai wear are called. I found our neighbor Jafet, who is a goat dealer and had helped me buy my goats there. He said he would keep an eye out as well, although as a man who sees thousands of goats a week, I admit that I doubted his ability to recognize ours.
The sun beat down as I made my rounds through all the goats and sheep. Noon came and I decided to admit defeat and go home. Omari had scoured the territory looking for them but had not yet given up the search. We went up to the hills in the late afternoon, but the sun was sinking and still no sign.
The goats have been gone for two nights, I thought. They’ve never done this before.
Thursday morning, Omari continued the search as I walked back to town to withdraw some cash as we had run low. On my way, Jafet flagged me down and told me that if our goats had been stolen, they were probably taken to a city district nearby where most goats for the whole city of Arusha are slaughtered. I listened with growing concern and called Omari. I told him we should probably follow Jafet’s advice because he’s an expert and knows how these things go. So Jafet and I made it to the bus stand and got on a bus and then another to head to the slaughter district.
Halfway through our trip on the second bus, Omari called me. “Nimewapata!” “I’ve found them!” He told me. “They lost their bell though. It must have fallen off somewhere.”
Who could care about a bell at a time like this! I looked over at Jafet and he was mildly amused. I hung up in relief and we both agreed that we hadn’t known how it would turn out, so better that we were on our way to the slaughterhouse when we got the good news. We got off the bus.
“In case you ever need to know, though, the slaughterhouse and the places where they store up goats are back there,” Jafet said, gesturing to a lime-green two-story building across the street. He showed me around some more, then bought some type of grilled goat organ meat at the meat strip, and I paid for two Pepsis. He’s a man of few words, but we chatted about goats before we got on another bus and parted ways.
“Where did you find them?!” I asked Omari when I got home.
“I called my friend from back home, he’s a mganga,” he said. “Mganga” is a general term for a doctor who uses holistic/ natural medicines and who often has other spiritual or supernatural abilities.
“I told him our goats were missing and that I thought they had been stolen. ‘They haven’t been stolen!’ He told me. ‘They want to be stolen, but they haven’t been. They just wandered off and got lost. Where are you right now?’ I told him I was out on the hills looking for them. ‘Do you know where the southwest is?’ He asked me. I wasn’t sure of the direction from where I was. ‘Go home, then look to the southwest. Your goats are coming home from the southwest. You will meet them.’ So I went home, and looked to the southwest, and there they were, on their way back home!”
Later that day I was still incredulous as I tossed some corn bran to the goats, who looked a little haggard from their two-day expedition. This country, man. There’s no explaining what happens in this country sometimes.
And I never, ever want these goats to get lost again. That fence can’t go up fast enough.