Tabaski and Burkinabé hospitality: mutton, mutton and more mutton

"En Europe, on a le moment mais pas le temps. En Afrique, on a pas le moment mais on a le temps."

So as the story goes, Ibrahim went into the desert to kill his son on God's request. Upon acknowledgement of Ibrahim's demonstrable faith, a sheep appeared and the son was saved. Ergo, Eid, aka Tabaski, is now celebrated across the Islamic world, 70 days after Ramadan, with the sacrifice of sheep.

As Burkina Faso is majority Muslim, the event became another fruitful cultural experience. The excitement began the day before at the sheep market, where I assisted a friend in a last minute scramble akin to buying a turkey the morning of Christmas Day. From the second we arrived, we were bombarded with sheep traders rubbing their hands at the sight of a group of Nassarahs (white people) looking to spend ligidi (money). Attempts to fleece the foreigners subsided due to hard bargaining on our part, but we were still surrounded by sheep and shouting (/bah-ing). Prices varied depending on size, sturdiness and colour of the sheep, which is preferably a white male (talking only about sheep here). The runt of the litter might go for 30 000 francs (40 GBP), while a strong champion of the herd might command six figures (more than 140 GBP). Curiously, the bigger the balls, the bigger the bucks; and traders constantly wrestled with the squirming rams to thrust healthy testicles our way. Talk about getting in your face.

Photo: the two sheep await fate.

The day of Tabaski starts with prayer at the mosque at 9am (as merely a cultural observer, I did not partake). The men of the family then gather for the sacrifice at home. In Burkina Faso (/much of the developing world), family is not just mum, dad and big brother: almost everyone hails from an amazingly huge household. The friend who'd invited me to his village has 12 brothers and sisters. One of his uncles fathered 19 children with three wives - polygamy being accepted practice amongst Burkinabé muslims. And my taxi driver has 22 siblings. Family is a broader concept, which necessarily includes cousins, uncles, aunties and elders. The cour (residential unit), in which we spent the day, housed around 40 family members. Moreover, the words frère (brother) and cousin seem interchangeable and the inflated demography often means everyone knows everyone in the village. For instance, en route we passed a toll without paying as the booth was occupied by the driver's brother (or cousin?). It begs the question, in a country where everyone has a huge family, where are the lines to be drawn between corruption and nepotism on the one hand, and thicker blood and family favours on the other?

Photo: the first sheep is sacrificed. The 'Chef de famille' is in blue.

Photo: the organs are removed.

Photo: crappest job ever? Emptying the stomach.

Photo: Têtes brûlantes

Photo: Who's for mutton?

The bloody deed is done by the head of the family. A few men hold the limbs of the animal as the throat is cut. Next comes the skinning, removal of organs and decapitation. In a landlocked country where food is generally scarce, nothing goes to waste. A mini production line assembles. The younger generations carry out the less desirable tasks, such as emptying the stomach and rinsing the intestines; and the adults butcher the meat. The two sheep heads are placed on a small fire to burn off the fur, in readiness to be served the day after Tabaski. The meat then moves to the kitchen en plein air, where the family's several generations of ladies prepare the ultimate mutton casserole. The rest of the day is spent eating, going to different houses to eat mutton, and generally wandering to saluer (greet other villagers). Unsurprisingly, this is followed by yet more mutton. Burkinabé hospitality stands out as one of the best I've had the pleasure and privilege to experience. Though food is often not so plenty, a spare seat and a hearty meal are always ready for visitors. The repeated generosity was topped when the head of the family presented us with a live chicken to take back to Ouaga. He's a burly cockerel named Tabaski who is currently running around my courtyard, preparing to awake us again tomorrow morning at an ungodly hour.

Photo: Best going away present ever

Photo: Enfant du village