Eating meat on Mount Kilimanjaro

By YoungHoy Kim Kimaro

Last month, I promised to discuss the meat eating habits of the Chagga people who inhabit the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro. They eat the usual choices of meat ― chicken, beef, pork ― and also goat. Of these, it’s the goat meat that steals the show; more about that later.

When these animals are being taken to slaughter, even if are captured and dragged along the very path they trod as free creatures every day, their moos, ba-a-ahs and grunts sound so different, so pleading and despairing as if they sensed the fate that awaits them.

In the old days there were no butcher shops on the mountain. Animals were slaughtered at home. Slaughtering was and continues to be strictly a male affair; women are forbidden even from witnessing it.

Slaughtering a bull or a cow yields a mountain of meat. But all that is gone by the end of one day, not because a family gorges on the meat, though they do get plenty. This is because it is shared among the Chagga community. In a society which does not have any means of refrigerating meat or a method of smoking it to preserve it, this makes a lot of sense.

Tradition dictates who get which cut of the meat. The father of each household has the right to the fatty outer part of the chest (kidari); the mother, the tenderest slice from the back of the animal (moongo). A sister receives a cut from the chest (long); the eldest brother, the one who will step into his shoes and assume the responsibility for his family should the father pass away first, is given the lower back and a leg (ngari). Women wait expectantly in the hut to receive the neck (mriya), innards, and pieces of meat from different parts of the animal, and so on. Other relatives, friends, and neighbors all have specific parts that they are also entitled to.

From time to time someone comes with a bundle, wrapped in banana leaves; fresh meat. There has been a slaughter. It’s a gift, as per tradition, from a relative, a friend or a neighbor; one of many give-and-takes that bind the community together. In recent years, butcher shops have mushroomed even in remote villages. The slaughtering of cows at home has become rare.

Roasting or stewing is the most common way of preparing meat. No, the Chaggas do not eat raw meat as do Ethiopians nor do they bleed a cow and drink its fresh blood as do the Maasais. However, there is a special dish which the Chaggas call “Kisusiyo,” stewed beef into which the fresh blood of a cow is added minutes before the pot is taken off the stove. This stew is believed to have healing properties. It is reserved for women that have just given birth and young who have just been circumcised. Men sometimes confess that they cheat a little. Whenever they slaughter a cow, they prepare their own crude version of “kisusiyo” to consume on site. Those that are soft-hearted set aside some for their mothers, spouses and sisters.

Within days after we arrived in Mwika carrying a month old baby, my father-in-law brought over this “kisusiyo.” Unlike other days, he was solemn. He had me stand before him as he made a speech expressing his pleasure at my having given him a healthy grandchild. He wished me a speedy recovery, and calling on his ancestors to bless this daughter-in-law of his with many more children. Only then did he put the bowl of “kisusiyo” into my hands with a kindly smile; fresh blood? Oh…! I was relieved that he did not stay around to see me eat it, which I didn’t. He doesn’t know that.

Now for the goat meat that steals the show. A goat roasted whole ― I mean truly whole with its head intact, is a tradition unique to the Chaggas in Tanzania. For grand celebrations such as weddings, this “ndafu” is a must.

The goat is roasted over an open pit. The chef keeps turning the whole carcass gently, patiently over slow fire for 12 hours or more. Cooked goat meat is infamously tough, challenging even for a healthy set of jaws. Not “ndafu.” It melts in your mouth. Maybe it’s the slow cooking that does the trick.

At celebrations, the “ndafu” is carried or rolled out at the appointed time to where the guests are. A large carrot, an apple, or an indigenous dracaena branch is placed in the gaping mouth. Its entry marks the height of the event. It electrifies the room.

With a flourish the chef carves “ndafu” before all and fills a plate. The host says a few words and hands the plate to the Guest of Honor who takes a slice, then singles out a person in the room and passes the plate to him or her, adding a few words of their own. The recipient does the same to another, and so the plate makes the rounds. Remarks accompanying the plate are spiced with humor and gibes. Laughter in the room multiplies.

Meanwhile, the chef takes back the “ndafu” and hurriedly carves it to fill many more plates which are placed on every table so that those who are not party to the ceremonial passing of the plate and bantering can enjoy their share of the feast.

The tradition of “ndafu” is very much alive and still evolving. It will be around for quite a while yet.

The writer resides on the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro in Tanzania. She worked for the World Bank for nearly 30 years and her email is yhkimaro@yahoo.com.