I cannot really say I am certain about how edible animals feel about being a stew. I don't know. But I can make a few assumptions drawing from the few odd decades I have lived as a black Zulu woman with rural connections and a family that has not birthed a vegan in the four generations I am familiar with. My boldest assumption is that animals somehow understand that their fate leads to a mix with Knorrox and potatoes – but their motto in life is “no surrender”. You would know this if you ever had to chase a rainbow-feathered cock with a razor-sharp pedicure around a farm, incurred a few scratches on your legs and still ate both its feet.
In all the years of watching the preparation of fresh meat for suppers and special events I have never known humans to have said, “Oh no! It ran for its life, leave it. We can't kill it now”, and have eaten salted carrots instead.
And so, when a big old goat that had been specially chosen as a sacrifice at my brother's funeral last month tackled my brother (well, not the deceased), I knew there was no way we were going to serve a plate of mixed veggies and steam bread with no meat at the funeral.
“The goat ran away. The whole stew pot for tomorrow, gone!” I screamed, alerting the rest of the family. I was the self-appointed head of catering for the event. I spent the few days before the funeral planning the dishes, and there was no way I was going to let good meat escape the menu.
Almost everyone who was there went out on the search-and-rescue mission. Bear in mind this was the day before a funeral, and there were enough people in that house to confuse Zuma's mathematics. I think the commitment to locate the goat was inspired by the knowledge that its death warrant had already been issued. It was no longer just a goat, but food. There was already a fire burning in its honour, and a big black pot awaited filling.
Only it was pitch dark, and mother's house is near the thick of the forests of Nomakhanzane, with neighbouring homesteads at least half a kilometre away and none with lit yards. Tar roads and street lights have never even made it into the local government political manifestos and a ditch less than 30cm wide is not considered a pothole ... it's terrain!
Our search was in vain. Each bleat echoed in different directions. And with the grass as tall as I am, it was impossible to make out where it could have headed. The family was abuzz with myths and attempts at deciphering why a goat would run away from a funeral. It was a sign. It was a telltale. It was the ancestors maybe. Or the deceased himself ...
Whatever it was, the goat's message was intercepted at dawn when one of the youngsters took a few cousins along and resumed the search. The goat was recovered near home, literally waiting for someone to rescue it from the wild. It did not put up a fight. You could see that the poor thing had said its last prayers just before the young man put it on his back. It looked exhausted, as if it had been running all night and was just so relieved to finally be able to take a nap on a muscular shoulder blade.
By the time they walked in with it, we had already chopped the onions.
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