Article: Dry season slaughter. (poem)

Fulani herdsmen drove cattle to our village From the north once or twice a year, Usually pendant la saison seche, Crazy horned, cathedral eyed beasts Long walk leaned to the slack of emaciation, With coarse black tails switching Tawny backsides that rolled over high bone And shit clogged hocks and hooves Rising and falling, softly, Stirring boils of dry season dust.

The abatteur would rend one cow for us, Artfully, his knife nigh to sacrifice, First a surprised bellow And then huge knees awkward in the red dirt, The remnant of the herd lowing dumbly Under the tattered palm thatching Of vacant market stalls - Only one cow because Although we could have eaten five, or ...

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