Chapter 2: The Christmas Goat Slaughter

When my real parents come find me, my family dey busy kill goat for Christmas—na our tradition, we dey call am "Christmas Goat Slaughter".

That morning, harmattan breeze still dey blow cold, so everybody wear wrapper and t-shirt. The whole compound dey alive, laughter everywhere, pikin dey run up and down, aroma of firewood smoke blend with goat smell. Some women dey peel yam, small boys dey chase chicken. Our compound just dey bubble with familiar family noise.

Half of the compound show face come help.

Uncle Chijioke and Aunty Ngozi from next street join. The twins from up the hill dey chase after Big Brown, our stubborn dog. Mama’s sister, Aunty Ijeoma, dey bring out old enamel plates. Even Papa’s old primary school friend show, holding sachet water, greeting everyone with him loud laugh.

People gather hold the goat down; my papa grip the goat mouth one hand, knife for the other, then sharply cut the goat neck.

We children dey form strong, but once blood start flow, Second Sister wince hide behind Mama. The men hold the goat steady, slippers brown with mud and old blood stains. The goat bleat—its voice sharp, cut through all the noise.

“Chai!” one of my cousins shout, cover face.

The goat struggle well well, blood splash all over my papa body.

Blood stain reach papa singlet, but he no send. He just wipe am with palm, rub for wrapper, continue as if na normal thing. The elders dey nod, “E get hand o!”

That time, the goat value pass anything.

That goat na small treasure. For our side, Christmas no complete if goat no die. We dey talk say, ‘If goat no die, Christmas never reach.’ Even small pikin sabi say goat slaughter na big deal.

For our small compound, Papa dey cut goat, dey break bone, Mama dey burn goat head for hair, Big Brother dey carry fat meat go pot, Second Sister dey slice congealed goat blood, me I dey wash my favourite—goat intestine.

The way I dey hold that intestine, eh, you go think say na gold. I dey press am soft soft, dey remove dirt with salt and hot water, careful make e no burst. My hands wet, chilly morning dey bite my skin, but na small price for best part of goat.

The people wey come help dey assist and also dey wait for goat-killing feast.

Even people wey claim say dem dey watch, still dey eye meat. Some dey gossip, some dey laugh, but everybody dey expect chop. Na so our compound dey every December, full of gist and hope for pepper soup.

Everybody dey busy, so e take time before we notice two strangers stand for yard.

I dey focus on intestine cleaning, until I raise head come see two people wey no belong—dem stand for one corner, dey try balance for slippery mud.

Na middle-aged couple we never see before.

The woman fine, her hair done with expensive attachments. She dey hold handbag wey no fit touch ground. The man tall, slim, wristwatch dey shine like new coin for hand. Both of them look lost, like JJC wey no sabi village.

The man wear native, the woman full everywhere with gold jewellery.

Na lace agbada the man wear, with red coral beads wey dey shout money. The woman wrap herself with wrapper wey fit feed my whole village. The gold for her ear, neck, and wrist nearly blind person.

Their expensive leather slippers just dey inside mud mixed with goat blood, dem just dey look lost.

I see as the woman try tiptoe, but mud hold her slippers tight. Her wrapper dey brush ground, mud stain am small, she twist face like say e pain her soul.

Dem dey look us—each of us dey hold goat part for hand—dem dey shake for fear.

If you see as we all dey—blood for hand, pot for head, firewood everywhere. Anybody wey no sabi our custom go think say na ritual we dey do. Their eyes round, fear dey shine inside.

Papa just finish the slaughter, still get that killing look for face. He put chewing stick for mouth, come ask:

"Una dey find wetin for here?"

Papa voice deep, chewing stick for mouth corner. He no smile. He wipe sweat for brow, look them up and down. The men and boys for compound face the strangers—nobody dey joke with unknown faces.

The middle-aged man try gather courage, clear throat.

Voice crack, as if frog dey for throat. He adjust cap, try smile, but smile weak, like say e wan run back inside mouth.

"I... We come find our daughter."

He stammer, eyes rest on me small, then look away.

"You dey find your daughter for my house? Wetin happen?"

Papa voice loud, like thunder. Neighbours wey dey pass even slow down. Mama pause for her work, raise eyebrow, eyes sharp like person wey dey ready for quarrel.

Mama throw the goat head enter basin.

The goat head land for basin with heavy kpom. Mama adjust head tie, eye the strangers well, mouth twist like she dey ready to rain insult if need be.

"How our family go get your daughter? Wetin be this, una be child thief?"

Her voice carry for compound. Some of the women come gather, ready to back her up if gbege start.

Everywhere quiet.

Even fowl wey dey waka for yard pause, as if e dey listen too. Children stop to play. The silence thick like ogbono soup. You fit hear pin drop.

Papa quietly carry bone cleaver, Mama hold hot firewood pot, Big Brother grab iron ladle, Second Sister hold firewood stick, all the uncles and aunties pick broom, shovel, pot, and pan. Even Big Brown, our dog, break chain, dey show teeth for them.

Everybody ready. Papa flex muscle, women dey frown, uncles and aunties dey form strong. Big Brown bark loud, teeth bared. The strangers fit see say our family no be small matter.

The couple fear catch them. Dem quick raise hand, point at me, fingers dey shake.

The woman’s voice shake, “Abeg, no vex. We no mean any harm. Na only our pikin we dey find.”

"Na true, we come find our daughter—the one wey dem swap for hospital eighteen years ago for Eziokwu Health Centre."

The man voice low, but clear enough. As he mention hospital swap, everybody gasp.

For that moment—

The only sound na goat intestine dropping for ground, and person sighing long sigh. E be like time freeze.

Everybody eye land for my body.

Even small pikin stop to chop, just dey look me. The air tight, as if breeze no fit pass.

The goat intestine wey I dey wash fall from my hand, land for ground with one wet sound.

I no even fit bend pick am. My legs weak. That intestine wey I love, I just let am go. The ground soak am, nobody even talk. All eye dey on me.

"...Ah..."

The sound just escape my mouth, small, thin, like fowl wey lose chick.