Goats have a habit of finding themselves in stews and stories. It’s their fate, their destiny, and it’s been like that for over ten thousand years…

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According to a Nigerian folk tale, there was once a rich man, who went by the name of Abdullahi. He owned a considerable number of cattle, sheep and, most of all, goats. However, he was a lonely man, with no family or friends for company.

One day, he met the judge of the town, who advised that when he died, all his cattle, sheep and goats would pass to the chief.

‘I don’t want the chief getting all these things,’ replied Abdullahi disgruntledly. ‘I’d rather sell them and enjoy life while I still can.’

Now words have the habit of catching on the wind, and little did Abdullahi know that he’d been overheard by the town rascal, who was already hatching mischief with his gang.

Abdullahi meanwhile went back home, and from his largest field, selected the fattest goat, slung it over his back, and headed off to market.

Soon along the road, he came across a seemingly friendly man, who after greeting him, gave him a quizzical look. ‘I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ asked the man respectfully, ‘but why is an honourable man like yourself carrying.. a pig?’

Now Abdullahi was taken aback by such a remark, and replied, ‘surely you can see that this creature is a goat, not a pig?’ and carried on his way.

The sun beat down on Abdullahi’s brow, and sweat stung his eyes. In the distance he spied another man perched beside the path, fingering his prayer beads.

‘A pious man!’ thinks Abdullah. ‘I will ask him for a blessing, so that I can make a good trade.’ And so he approached.

‘How do you expect me to give you my blessing,’ replied the man, ‘when you are carrying.. a pig?’

This time Abdullahi rubbed his eyes, as if trying to see truth from illusion. He went on his way with a troubled heart.

Before long, he came across a third man, who appeared deep in prayer. This time Abdullahi was hesitant, and decided to steer right clear. But as he passed, the man leapt out before him, and cried in fury. ‘Why, sir, are you carrying a pig? Have you no shame? Surely you’d not wish to dishonour the good people of our town!’

Now this was too much for Abdullahi. He promptly threw down the goat, and ran back home, disturbed for his own health.

The town rascal, meanwhile, picked up the goat, slung it over his back, and feeling rather pleased with himself, headed off to the market, whistling as he went.

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“All the stories that fled other parts of the world, rejects from pristine, sophisticated, ‘normal’, ‘abnormal’, or blatantly evil space; all the bata hanging between night and day, facts that confound good and bad fiction, every eccentricity under the sun: they all live here…”

Yemisi Aribisala in Longthroat Memoirs: Soups, Sex and Nigerian Taste Buds

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The tale of Abdullahi originates from a part of the world I’ve never been, about an animal I’d never grown up eating, about a religion quite distinct from my own. And yet… it resonates. Such are the power of stories. Transcendent. Eternal.

In my pre-teenage years, and especially the months preparing for my barmitzvah, I found solace in Judaism’s rituals and customs, festivals and community. I embraced it all, and they offered a certain comfort and belonging.

But I also found myself tipped into a certain religious obsessionality, and at these times, in the shadows, found a formidable, unwanted guest – guilt. Guilt on discovering I’d inadvertently eaten something not strictly kosher. Guilt at forgetting to say the ritual blessings over food during a synagogue meal. And lots of non-dietary guilt too.

Such transgressions now seem relatively innocuous to me, but at that time in my life, the guilt would gnaw until it hurt. And if occurring in full view of others, then cue a red blush of shame too.

Even years later, I can feel Abdullahi’s humiliation. I know its source. And its balm? Well nowadays, my relationship with Judaism is more cultural than religious, and so whenever I feel guilt, it’s generally not of the Jewish kind. Back then, however, one reliever of guilt… was goat.

Or at least the biblical story of the scapegoat – humble beast, tragic creature, lonely bearer of the sins (and guilt) of an entire people. Every Yom Kippur its story is told, and such vivid imagery, along with the intensity of the festival’s liturgy and rituals, proved a powerful influence on a God-fearing twelve year-old.

Still, amidst all the solemnity and mysticism of the occasion, as a child I couldn’t help but feel a little sorry for the goat: cast out into the wilderness, it all seemed rather unfair.

So in my head, I found myself trying to rehabilitate the beast onto a more benign path: perhaps it could find an oasis in the middle of the desert, a place of lush vegetation and perhaps even the companionship of other scapegoats from years-gone-by?

And that’s when I realised that stories aren’t always static: they can change, they can be remoulded, like clay before a firing. Even with ancient stories – tales preserved as though in aspic or vinegar – there’s always scope to reframe. Stories may be eternal, but our relationship with them is dynamic and open to possibility.

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“Aaron shall lay both his hands upon the head of the live goat and confess over it all the iniquities and transgressions of the Israelites, whatever their sins, putting them on the head of the goat; and it shall be sent off to the wilderness through a designated man. Thus the goat shall carry on it all their iniquities to an inaccessible region; and the goat shall be set free in the wilderness… “

Leviticus 16:21-22

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“Goats were the first wild herbivores to be domesticated in the Near East around 11,000 years ago at the beginning of the revolutionary transition from hunter-gatherer to agriculture-based societies. Ever since that time, goats have fulfilled a vital economic, cultural and religious role in many human civilisations.

…Recent data obtained from molecular genetics have helped to clarify the evolutionary history of the genus Capra. As expected, phylogenetic analyses reveal that species with neighbouring geographical distributions tend to be closely related. Nevertheless, discordance between different genetic markers is common and has been interpreted as a result of ancient hybridization between ancestral types of wild goats.”

Pereira & A. Amorim. 2010. Origin and Spread of Goat Pastoralism.

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Many centuries ago, in the western stretches of Ukraine, lived the great Kabbalistic mystic and healer, the Baal Shem Tov. One day, as he was walking by the marketplace, he caught sight of an elderly man, unkempt and disheveled.

To the amazement of the Baal Shem Tov, surrounding the man was the shimmering glow of heavenly light. The man however seemed quite oblivious, busy as he was perusing vegetables at one of the stalls, taking great care to pick out the choicest and freshest greens.

Intrigued, the Baal Shem Tov followed the man all the way back to his home, a dilapidated shack on the outskirts of town. Even more astonishment followed, for when the man walked through the gate, he was suddenly accosted by a throng of goats, whose ears he affectionately tousled, and whose bleating was warm and joyous. The man proceeded to get out the greens, and fed them to the appreciative beasts.

‘My dear friend!’ called out the Baal Shem Tov, and he approached the gate. ‘I’m sorry to intrude, but I couldn’t help being curious – goats like to eat shrubs and weeds, so why are you feeding them your finest produce?’

The man introduced himself as Herschel, and immediately invited the great mystic into his humble home. Over a plain wooden table, he poured out a cup of fresh goat’s milk, and offered it to his visitor. He then proceeded to tell his story.

‘My dear late wife, olav hasholom, was a very special woman, always giving herself to those less fortunate. After she died, on the seventh day of shiva, she came to me in a dream, in which she told me how caring for others filled her with love.

‘From that day on, to honour her memory, I decided I would try my best to follow her path of kindness. But all I had were my goats, I didn’t know what to do! Then I found that if I fed them the choicest greens, and tended to them with care and devotion, they would give me the richest, smoothest milk.

‘Now, whenever I visit the synagogue, I listen out for the mi shebarach blessings for the sick and needy, and later in the night, whilst everyone is sleeping, I leave out a little jug of milk on each of their doorsteps. It may not be much, but hopefully it provides some nourishment and healing.’

And with that, the Baal Shem Tov understood. He knew why the man exuded the light of the divine.

After a moment of reflection, he gave a little nod, ‘Herschel, nothing is more sacred than such offerings of love.’

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“Caproic acid, also known as hexanoic acid, is the carboxylic acid derived from hexane with the chemical formula CH₃(CH₂)₄COOH. It is a colorless oily liquid with an odor that is fatty, cheesy, waxy, and like that of goats or other barnyard animals…”

Wikipedia, on Caproic acid

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“Feed The Goat, Feed The Goat,
Feed The Goat and he will score.
Feed The Goat and he will score…”

In my youth, another kind of religion also gripped my soul: football. And if I were to think of a goat, it would most likely appear in the form of legendary Manchester City and Bermudian striker, Shaun Goater. Affectionately nick-named ‘The Goat’, he proved a ray of light during the team’s lean years, his caprine moniker a constant reverberation around the stands.

Recent times, however, have seen me appreciate goats less for their goal-scoring prowess, and more as a culinary ingredient. This is largely thanks to the likes of Asma Khan’s sumptuous goat khosha mangsho in the pop-up days of Darjeeling Express; or learning to cook curry goat at one of Dawn Burton’s Jamaican food workshops; or buying fresh goat’s cheese from Elle’s Dairy at my local market.

However it is Joké Bakare’s dish of ayamase goat stew – served at her wonderful West African restaurant, Chishuru – that really got me thinking about goats.

Here, the sweetness of the meat is beautifully offset by a sauce of green peppers, and then lifted by the deep umami from traditional Nigerian condiments such as iru (aka dawadawa, fermented locust beans) and ground crayfish.

Other dishes also delight, prepared with both heart and innovation. There’s an exquisite Yoruban dish of ekuru – soft square cushions of pulverised black-eyed beans, seasoned and steamed, and served with a crown of pumpkin-seed pesto, and a side of flame-coloured scotch bonnet sauce. And then a speciality of Nigeria’s Cross River region, ekoki: a steamed corn dish that’s like a pillow after a long, hard day.

Joké herself periodically wanders between the tables: it matters to her that everyone is enjoying a good meal. She is the most hospitable chef. During our own discussion, she scuttles back to the kitchen, and returns with various types of kilishi (beef jerky) made by a friend; she is keen for us to try. It is all wonderful. I then ask about the ayamase.

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No-one knows the true origins of ayamase. Or if they do, as with most origin stories, they also have to contend with a constellation of other competing tales, each one picking up snippets of story like a rolling ball of tumbleweed.

Some of these stories arise from the same well, but the tale varies according to who is drawing from it. One has it that a rice-seller created ayamase as a special dish for her lover. Another has it that the creator’s husband’s nickname was ‘Mase’, hence she, and by extension the dish, became Aya Mase (“wife of Mase”). Some say that the name, ‘Mase’ – which in Yoruba can mean “don’t do it!” – came about after the husband’s heated exchange with a rival.

Another story is distinctly specific: naming the originator as a certain Mrs Felicia Ajibabi Adesina of Ikenne-Remo, who having prospered from the popularity of her ayamase, supported her children to emigrate to the UK, one of whom later set up the restaurant, Aso Rock, on Bradbury Street in Dalston.

Such is the nature of stories. They can be idiosyncratic and unique, a product of their time and place, shaped by specific lives and landscapes. They can also be considerably universal, tales that bind us together, and connect us through the commonality of the human condition: love and loss, joy and suffering, loneliness and solidarity, jealousy and kindness, justice and inequality, migration and belonging.

Either way, like food, stories are how we learn about other people and peoples, where they have come from, and what they hold dearest. To be human is to be story-tellers, and story-listeners, and that’s how it’s always been.

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But what of the goat? What’s its story? Hardy creature, humble beast, unprepossessing in so many ways. Yet through its muscly sinews and rich, savoury milk, it has sustained humanity since the dawn of history. And upon its back, it has carried sins and stories far and wide.

As such, the goat is an unassuming, unwitting hero. From mountain to plain, troll bridge to dwarf kingdom, they signify resilience and redemption, accessible to all, without the need of fanciful fairy godmothers or magical pots of gold. And if, alas, the story does end in a stew, well at least it is going to be delicious.

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A big thank you to Joké Bakare – for her warm hospitality, and generosity in discussing West African food. If you make it to Chishuru, you’ll be in for a treat. And if you’re interested, here’s a article and recipe for ayamase.

Thanks also to Yemisi Aribisala for reading through a draft of this piece. Her book, ‘Longthroat Memoirs: Soups, Sex and Nigerian Taste Buds’ is such a brilliant read, and a fascinating journey through Nigerian food culture.

A shout out also to my friend, Marc – his kind gift of ‘A Kabbalah of Food: Stories, Teachings, Recipes’ by Rabbi Hanoch Hecht is a marvellous collection of Ashkenazi tales and recipes, and includes the story of ‘Herschel, The Goat Lover’, which I adapted for this piece. Likewise, here is an evocative reading of the Nigerian folktale, ‘A Rich Man and His Goat’, which I also adapted.

On the theme of food-related stories, I highly recommend Rachel Mosses’ podcast, ‘Folklore, Food and Fairytales’ – do check out her wonderful series of interviews with storytellers.

Much has been written about goats as an ethical and sustainable livestock, not least Cabrito’s James Whetlor’s cookbook and all-round homage to goats and goat-farming, ‘Goat‘. Shout out too to Street Goat, a Bristol enterprise that takes under-used, overgrown urban land, and brings communities together to collectively rear goats for milk, fibre and meat – providing affordable access to a local food system.

Finally, for a post about Brixton and another of its great food places (Fish, Wings and Tings), plus a crossover with Jewish food, you may also like my ‘A Tale of Two Fish Balls‘.

Goats

Chishuru