I returned to the Kibo Slope GH after a few glasses of Konyagi. Woody had set my tent away from the rest of the team. I said nothing, but someone must have have complained about my not washing for a week.

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Not Larry, because both of us hadn’t changed our clothing for seven days. Larry was young. Old men or M’zee smell different from the young, so I wasn’t insulted by the distance. At least not a lot.

Tonight we were having a goat BBQ.

Two Maasai men were killing the creature.

I decided to watch.

There was no ritual to the killing.

The goat didn’t suspect anything.

He had been on a lead before.

The warriors lay the beast on his side and slashed his throat. Blood slurped from the gash. Life faded from his eyes. I walked away to my tent. I had thrown people downstairs and off buildings, but never killed anything in my life other than insects. Darkness came as quickly as death on the African plains.

A fire lit our dining area.

Plates were placed on a table.

The goat meat sizzled on a grill.

We were a team.

We had walked across the plains.

The young and the old.

“You ever eat goat, M’zee,” asked Jubbah.

Hell, yeah. Jerked goat in Jamaica. Rasta goat.”

Bob Marley goat.”

We chomped on the meat and sucked on the bones.

I was a good change from our cooking.

Ma’we placed a bowl on goat entrail soup before me.

“This will make you a true Marran.”

My late father and I prided ourselves in cast iron stomachs.

I drank from the bowl It tasted good, but within minutes my writhing bowels warned I had made a serious mistake.

I ran to the bathroom and lost ten pounds within thirty seconds.

Tim called from Geneva.

I told him about the soup.

“I expressly warned you against that.”

“I don’t remember that , but sorry I have to go.”

I pitched up next to the WC and listened to the Prayer Man rant about Jesus.

I was voiding from every pore of my body.

I was going to be a long night.