For months now, Malians have been preparing for Tabaski. A couple weeks ago, the trucks packed with bleating sheep heading for Bamako grew ever more constant and steady. Buses were empty of people but piled high with sheep on top, big and long-horned, certain to be sold at a high price. One such bus broke down in my village and I cycled past, piercing bleats of sheep with their legs tied together following me as I rode from one side of the village to the other.
The sheep are expensive -- especially if they're big and fat -- and Mapha spent over $200 American dollars on three sheep: one for him, one for his first wife, and one for his second wife. Adama was the lucky one, though. A group of French volunteers had passed through our village the previous month, bringing with them Goustav, the sheep that had been given to them by their friends from the village they had been in prior to coming to ours. Goustav was large with splendid horns and a clean white coat. A couple of the French girls, vegetarians, couldn't stomach the idea of seeing dear Goustav killed and skinned, reduced to meat in a sauce. But neither could they take Goustav with them on the plane to France.
And so, on the day the French waved goodbye to the village and headed for Bamako, Adama found himself the proud new owner of Goustav. He put down hay and built a shelter for Goustav to shield him from the harsh sun. Sitan fed Goustav the leftovers and I gave a shout out to Goustav on the radio. And yet -- Goustav never became the adored family pet that the French girls might have imagined. After Goustav attacked Le Vieux, Adama's youngest son, the family was practically counting down the days to the days to when Goustav's throat would be cut.
That day came last Saturday, the first day of the three-day Tabaski celebration. And while the French girls may not have intended such a fate for Goustav, perhaps they had seen something in Adama that told them he was an animal lover too. In fact, Adama has never been able to kill an animal. Not even a chicken, definitely not a small goat -- he just can't do it. When I arrived on Saturday morning, I found Goustav hanging upside down from the shelter that had once kept him safe from the sun, Adama standing by but refusing to participate as another man skinned the animal and removed its entrails.
A lifeless Goustav.Goustav was soon reduced to hunks of meat that Sitan and I chopped and added to the pot, along with onions and garlic and tomatoes. Adama piled a good portion onto a plate and lifted it onto his daughter's head. After killing your own sheep, portions of the meat are given to relatives and family friends, and especially to the elder members of the community who may not have been able to buy a sheep of their own.
Banta is one of those old women. On Saturday morning, when I left for Adama's, she stayed in the compound, afraid to leave lest those wishing to give her meat found a locked door. When I arrived home from Adama's I found Banta and a bucket filled to the top with meat. There was more meat in the village than I had ever seen in my life. Dark red slabs everywhere. As I worked my way through the streets wishing friends another peaceful year, I came away with a couple of my own pieces of raw meat. I carried them awkwardly in my hand on the way home, presenting them to Banta to add to the pile overflowing from her bucket.
In my village, Tabaski is the time to eat well, greet family and friends, and dress up in your best clothes. I spend the whole weekend feeling underdressed next to women in fancy basin outfits covered in intricate embroidery. I second guess my decision not to get my hair braided. I pass the weekend rushing from house to house, worried I won't make it to everyone's house in time to wish them a peaceful year, many children, and good health. The smell of good food hangs in the air, but the bleating of sheep no longer follows me. "Ala ka ce ko nogoya" is the blessing I get the most, which translates roughly as "May God make this year easier to find a man." But the blessings that mean the most are the ones I hear from those in the village who have made me feel so much like a part of their own family. "May we be together this year," they say, "May you return safely to your family in America." "May we see each other in the years to come."
Mamou and Sitan Looking GoodA year ago, I wandered the streets nervously on Tabaski. I knew barely any blessings in Bambara and I remember stopping at Adama's to give them. "Aw sambé sambé," I said, "Ala ka san were jiranna." "Is that it?" he asked, "you're done already?"
On Monday morning, I wake up early to bike to San. The smell of meat beginning to go rancid hangs in the air. Banta hands me a bag of meat to bring to my people in San. And as I ride through the village, passing the still sleepy houses, I am thankful: to be here, right now. Thankful for a Malian family who has guided and welcomed me just as the Indians did the Pilgrims so long ago on a different shore.
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