Peter Forberg

My nextdoor neighbor is not a goat. He is a sheep. And there are many of them.

I want to say, in my defense, that sheep in Senegal do not fit the image of the puffy, softly baaing clouds of wool and dreams that Western media presents to its dewy eyed babes. I’ve milked a goat, I’ve shaved a sheep, I should’ve known the difference. But in Senegal, these wool-poor rooftop inhabitants are not light and full of mirth: they are sagging and full of meat.

Look I hated that last sentence too, but that doesn’t change tabaski. Tabaski, more commonly known in Arabic as Eid al-Adha, is an Islamic festival celebrating the “willingness of Ibrahim to sacrifice his son as an act of obedience to God’s command.” In the highly religious society that is Senegal, it is expected that such a holiday be ritualized the only way the Old God would have it: by sacrificing a sheep. In a market that anticipates the highly religious society that is Senegal, it is expected that such a holiday be ritualized the only way the Old God and Law of Demand would have it: by sacrificing a sheep that you have kept on your roof in order to avoid the increased price of sheep in the weeks leading up to tabaski, which is a summer holiday. Because every head of the household equates to one sacrificed sheep, this can lead to multiple sheep being kept on a single roof, or perhaps one neighborhood shepherd opens his terrace to sheep fed for friends and family. These sheep serve no other purpose than satisfying a yearly hunger, so they hang out upstairs for a while, getting fat and baaing late into the night.

My nextdoor neighbor is on death row. He is horned like the devil (see, goat!), and he intimidates his fellow pen inhabitants, but his time is limited, and no matter how brass his bellow, he will soon perish.

In many ways, the city is my neighbor. Don’t think about that statement too deeply, think about it functionally: it’s a bad transition sentence. You can tell that it is a bad transition sentence because I am now six clauses into my next paragraph, and I still haven’t made my point. My point is, the city of Dakar is full of human-animal relations like this, thus I am granted many bestial neighbors in turn. The ways in which people and animals interact in a mixed occupation (and thus income) developing economy like Dakar are pointedly different from Western concepts of normal human-animal relations. For example, people might own dogs, but these dogs are rarely treated as companions. Instead, they are kept on the roof or in a kennel during the night, and then they are let out during the day to roam the city, if they are let out at all. The function of these dogs is purely security, thus they are not liked for their warm, playful demeanors or goofy antics, solely for their ability to prevent intrusion. From anecdotal evidence, people are more comfortable beating a dog with a stick than seeing it leashed and walked down the street. Also, Dakar’s water system is stable enough that most people are able to shower daily. People don’t wash dogs, and they smell horrible. Don’t pet them.

Cats are free range and rarely allowed in houses. Again, people don’t really own cats, who are only useful for killing pests, but since it’s unusual to let cats into homes, they aren’t necessarily even efficient at that. People might recognize specific cats, and at the maximum leave out a small bowl of food, but such companionships are unusual. At night, by sex or combat, cats pierce the night with loud, painful screeches.

Birds are good luck and people will feed them with bowls of seed. People don’t keep them in cages, or at least pretty rarely. There are over 600 species of birds in Senegal, and I cannot stress enough how absolutely gorgeous some of these species are. They glide down city streets between apartment building windows, they pick twigs off the beach to turn into seaside nests, and they dive like missiles deep into the ocean. Everywhere they are singing, like sirens or like firecrackers, and they give each neighborhood in the city its own morning soundtrack. Mine is filled with a cacophony of squawks perforated by staccato tweets. Others sound like the launch of 1000 fireworks.

Moving on. I don’t want to cast Senegal as a country that is alienated from or uncomfortable with animals: the opposite could not be more true. Affectionate, domestic relationships with animals are definitely outside of the norm, but the presence of animals in Senegal pushes the limits on Westerner’s interest in animal companionship. In a major urban area like Dakar, cows will roam freely through the streets, along major boulevards or down tight, sandy roads criss-crossing neighborhoods. Their owners may be dead, or they could be incredibly attentive, knowledgeable of where their herd is heading. One particular herd was owned by something a wizened neighborhood sage, an old man of great respect, and so upon his death his herd was granted amnesty. Now those cows wander freely through the streets, untouched for fear of bad luck.

Crates of chickens appear on the side of the road, entire markets are filled with fresh fish stacked like cheerleading pyramids, children walk around with slaughtered poultry firmly held by the feet, horses pull precarious 2-wheeled carts, and men butcher sheep on the beach. Animals are everywhere, in every form. Pregnant goats with bloated bellies will one day drop their spawn in the street, and dead dogs will curl up under hot cars. At every stage, for every smell, for all the baaing and yelping and screeching, for all the dirt and grime and waste, animals are ingratiated in the city life.

My nextdoor neighbor is not a goat; he is a sheep. Soon he will die. And I will be gone.