By John Vogel
For four hours, we burned down shrubs, limbs, and trash. We started the fire with homemade liquor poured from a milk jug. When we placed the grate—some sort of industrial fencing material—over the fire, it ignited whatever coated the outside and burned for 10 minutes, only to become a cloud of black smoke. Everyone stood around, laughing, drinking, and having such a good time, we almost forgot to put the goat on to cook. The goat, which was alive a half hour ago, was “cleaned” using a machete, wielded by a very intoxicated and angry man.
Overall, it was an uncharacteristically lively and libatious gathering for what I was told was an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting.
The original goal had been to buy a goat to serve for Easter. I was informed that if I brought a goat back to our compound, it could be turned into a stew that would feed 100 people over three days. With the best intentions for my fellow man, I informed George, the cook, that I wanted a goat, and he said he knew just the guy.
Our journey started at a complex that housed European aid workers specializing in everything from medical clinics to refugee legal services. The area we were in was full of refugees ranging from Somalians, Ethiopians, Ugandans, and even Congolese. Often, these groups cross the border illegally into Kenya and bide their time until they can go home. For most, that homecoming never comes. These Europeans had their work cut out for them, and as a result, had a facility with steel paneled walls, 24/7 security, generators, emergency water, and even satellite television.
When I asked George why we were there, he simply said, “I know a person who knows goats.” By this point, I’d learned not to ask too many questions, only because you never get answers, but I chose a softball question about how George knew this guy.
“We are in a group,” he stated simply.
I knew George had a serious drinking problem and that he claimed to have found an Alcoholics Anonymous group, even out here.
The goat man, Paul, appeared outside the front gate, George explained the situation, and two calls on a cell phone later (my cell phone), we were off down the road with Paul.
George informed me that this group of his meets whenever they can. They talk and support one another, and when someone needs something, such as a goat, the men meet up to help, kind of. I gave George enough money to cover the cost of the goat, knowing the price he’d get would be better than mine.
Four hours later, with the sun starting to set and the goat still cooking, I began to suspect I had misunderstood the group. This group didn’t exist to keep you off the hooch and encourage sobriety, they existed to make sure you only got drunk with them. The members are of mixed African descent, most speaking English or French, and one explained they are from “all over,” meaning all over the continent.
Things started to click, Paul works directly for the Europeans as a local fixer of sorts. When I’d asked him what he does, he said he finds people for the workers to help. I asked what kind of help they offer, and he laughed. The guy with the machete just loudly said, “money.” Everyone laughed, and then the party started.
They must have thought I was homesick for American barbeque, which the scene had almost all the fixins for, except one element: firearms.
They provided.
A duffle bag was brought out containing a host of typical African armaments: AKs, SMLEs, a single-shot shotgun, a few oddball handguns, and a grenade.
“You want?” a group member asked, handing me an AK underfolder that looked like it was regularly stored in a bathtub.
Now everything made sense. These guys are declared refugees, Paul brings them to the aid workers, who give them food, water, meds, and cash. The aid workers pump their numbers up and have unlimited funding. These guys sell it all to fund their arms trading and liquor production. They sell guns, liquor, drugs, and goats to keep the party going. They like George, because everybody likes George, but also because he’s a local and knows everyone.
The mag was loaded, but not full. There was a round in the chamber, and the safety switched off. I strongly felt the American urge to squeeze off a round, but I resisted, not wanting to be rude. I handed it back and thanked them, but didn’t want to end up in a Kenyan prison, so I declined the purchase. No hard feelings.
The goat was ready—black on the outside, gray on the inside. Machetes flew, and pieces were quickly torn apart. All those in attendance glistened in the light of the fire, covered in a good layer of goat fat. The guns were getting the closest thing to a cleaning they’d received since leaving the factory. The jugs ran empty, and the “meeting” ended when the last coal died. George and I thanked everyone, and we headed out.
Drunk, well-fed, and not in handcuffs, the night was a fun one. I reminded George I still needed to buy a goat, to which he replied, “You just did, and we just ate it.”
