Vincent’s Goat

It started as just an ordinary day, an ordinary job.

Vincent’s mother had died during Zimbabwe’s war of liberation.

Her grave, in the home village was unblessed.

So would I do it?

No problem.

So we set out in the Mazda 323 driving north.

An hour and half out of Banket, somewhere beyond Mvurwi,

Vincent said, “Turn right here.”

Me: “But there’s no road.”

“Well, this is where I get off the bus.”

So we turn through the field gate, just as if we too had got off a bus.

There were tractor tracks around the edge of the field,

we followed them.

In the second field, or was it the third,

the track was washed away,

just a big gap where it once had been.

So it was time to learn road building.

First some big boulders to fill the hole,

then smaller stones to fill in the gap.

Then jump up and down to see if it will hold.

And maybe some wood across the top just to be on the safe side.

Then edge the car slowly across,

hoping the whole thing won’t collapse

and leave us stranded, we knew not where.

After a mile or two across more fields,

we found a track.

This led to a village.

People seemed surprised to see a car.

I wonder why?

Then: “Turn left after the next house.”

OK.

There was, of course, no road,

not even a track,

not even much of a footpath.

Just six foot high elephant grass

across the vlei.

“My village is over there”

But what was in between.

Rocks maybe,

water perhaps – but it was the dry season so probably not.

Animals even.

In the grass it was impossible to tell.

So we started across,

The tinder dry grass flattening under the bonnet of the car,

I hoped the exhaust wouldn’t set it alight.

Needless to say,

ours was the first car seen in the village.

After that, the blessing was routine.

A mile or so’s walk into the bush,

a kopje, some rocks, and among the rocks the grave.

A short service, well short by African standards,

just an hour or two;

then back for sadza and chicken at the village.

In the end, just as dusk fell, I decided it was time to leave.

We still had that elephant grass to get through.

And the round of goodbyes would take a good half hour.

And as we reach the car,

there in the back, behind the back seat, is a goat,

a live goat.

A present for the honour I had paid them.

There was no point in saying the honour was all mine.

I had to accept,

it would be insulting not too.

This time we found a road after the elephant grass.

But for a hundred miles or so,

The goat watched over my driving,

and just as it grew quiet with the steady hum of the engine,

the passengers dozing,

suddenly it would bleat its approval,

or disapproval there was no way of knowing.

Back in Banket, my catechist Weston,

was pleased to be offered the goat,

enough meat for a month.