The Goat That Got Away

He made the mistake of returning to the scene of the crime

Apparently there is a tradition in Jamaica where builders will slaughter a goat and ceremoniously pour its blood inside the foundation of a new building. Once the goat is slaughtered and its blood (mixed with white rum) is scattered in the corners of each “room,” the goat is cooked and shared with the workers on the property. Lots of rum and soda is consumed and a day-long party ensues. 

Whether you eat goat or not, and whether you believe the tradition to be pagan or evil in nature, is beside the point. It’s done on a regular basis and even the folks who participate are not able to give any good reason why the tradition continues, but it does. 

So when my friend’s home in the parish of St James was ready for its foundation of cement to be poured, we were invited to a goat killing ceremony by the builder of the property. Since I don’t eat goat meat and wasn’t keen on the idea of watching the slaughtering, I opted to arrive fashionably late to the party. Upon arriving, we saw a goat tethered in the back of a pick up truck near the site of the property. He looked pissed. 

I was told he had run away earlier in the day, probably anticipating his demise. He ran into the woods, bleating and running for his life. Another goat had to be secured in the meantime if the ceremony was to begin promptly. Once the second goat was on the chopping block, goat #1 (as seen above) returned to the scene of the crime and was scooped up, hobbled and put into the back of a pick up truck.

I innocently suggested that the prodigal goat be awarded its freedom considering his craftiness. The powers that be wouldn’t hear of it. “We have another ceremony on Sunday,” was their glib reply. 

I did not eat any of the goat that day, although I did imbibe in a rum and Coke served in the flimsiest of plastic cups.

I whispered in the goat’s ear that I did not approve of the tradition, and that I had never eaten goat in my life. His eyes told me that he did not trust me and for a quick minute I thought of letting him go when no one was watching, but I didn’t. It was not my home, not my tradition and not my goat.                                                                                                                                                                                                        

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