The goatfather

Taketi herds about 75 goats for his family, which means that he is up by 5 am to drive them to the river for water. By 7:30 he is at school while the goats wander, and by 2pm he is back out into the bush rounding them up. He herds goats 7 days a week, and he does it well, at least that’s what I would like to believe. And though he is only 8 years of age, he has found a way to extort gifts from each and every garden owner that his goats pass on their daily migration to and from the riverbed.

I wasn’t keen to it at first. The goats amble into the yard, prompting me to chase them. And there is Taketi, smiling away, ignoring the fact that the goats are making fast work of our crops. “I have come to greet you” he says in his 3rd grade Kiswahili. I happen to be at about the same level and so I respond by asking about school, news of his home and how his goats are doing that day. He peeks behind me into the house and says, “kuna zawadi leo”? Which, roughly translates to, “do you have any gifts for me today”? To which I usually produce a piece of candy, a banana, or even just a cup of water. His tiny stature doesn’t allow him to see over the live fence, so most times he is either jumping for a peak, or leaning awkwardly to see what’s happening through the wall of thorns. Some nights, as the sun goes down, he even helps me add thick thorny branches to fortify the barrier because his tiny little hands can so ably sneak past the thorns that ensnare me in fits of cursing.

I have slowly had the chance to meet neighbors and learn about his racket. It’s simple, but effective. Give him gifts and he will keep his goats out of your yard. Cross him—deny him treats or toys from town—and you will find goats nibbling away the precious shoots and leaves that you have so dedicatedly sown. His little tire sandals and big pearly white smile don’t fool me. He’s running a little goat syndicate complete with payoffs, retribution and old world black mail. If I tell him we have no treats, he usually gives me one last opportunity by asking “Jennie yupo hapa”? I tell him that Jennie is around, but we still don’t have sweets, and to this he turns slowly, eyes me one last time as if to say, “Your crops are goat food sucka,” and then meanders home.

Travelers beware. If you’re looking for the mugger in a hoodie, you are sure to get taken. The real robbers here are the adorable children that warm your heart and talk you into giving them all your stuff. Taketi has already booked half of the things I own, and I will probably just wheel a couple of suitcases to his place when we leave. I marvel at how we came 10,000 miles to realize that there’s a Dennis the Menace in every town.