We are having drinks at a café in down town Maseru. It is my first night out, and after so many security warnings it feels fun to be out and about on a Saturday night. I am in conversation with a man about my experience in Lesotho. I share with him about seeing a chicken killed, and admit that although I watched, fascinated, I do not yet know how to kill a chicken. He asks me, “But have you killed a sheep?” He is dressed in a classic turquoise polo of sheer cloth, and he takes a drag off his cigarette as he waits for my answer. He has two drinks, a red bull and a whiskey – both on the rocks.
I shake my head, “No, I have not seen a sheep killed.”
He smirks and shakes his head. He turns to another man, originally from Rwanda [we learn later]. “You. You know how to kill a sheep, right?”
The man smiles and shyly shakes his head, “No.” He pauses, then decides to continue. “No, but I know how to kill a goat.”
Both men knowingly nod, and then the man next to me looks away and takes a long drink. The man from Rwanda leans forward and looks at me. “A goat, it is very different. A goat, it will move his head like this,” and he twists and rotates his head around. “And it will make a lot of noise.”
The man next to me puts down his drink. “It is like a woman!” He laughs.
“Yes,” the other continues, “But a sheep…” His head falls to one side and he begins to stare at me with mock expectation. “… a sheep will just wait, and watch.”
Later I am reminded, “It is something that you will have to do to know that, yes, you are in Africa. You will have to kill a sheep.” He lifts his glass, raises it in my direction, then takes a long full drink.