O Milo, Where Art Thou?

When Milo went missing for over 36 hours the village consensus was that someone had eaten her. “But, she’s so young and small, they should wait until she is older and more meaty” I joked. “Next time I will get a dog.” I said, finishing my beer. Flora, the bar maiden/ owner of the small dark room we were sitting in picked up my bottle “Good, make it a big one, lots of meat.”

As she opened another bottle I asked her why she had not yet eaten her cat, Milo’s mother, who looked to me very plump. “She’s good for business” she replied. This is true. She has a monopoly on the feline market in Ujindile, and the rodent infested huts are sorely in need of her services. Most of the cats in my village are stick thin. At six months old, Milo is the chubbiest cat out of any feline I’ve seen in Tanzania.

“She’s gone off to find an mpenzi” Agnes my house girl said to me at choir practice earlier that day. “She’s too young for a boyfriend Agie, like you.” I reply, though Agnes is 20, I seize every opportunity to assist in her family planning. “Not you!” she laughs, “you should have babies, they will look like this;” she motions to someone’s baby she’s been holding throughout practice, “now you are mTanzanian.” She laughs again and slaps my hand. “We will see” I say, and we go into another round of kwake yesu nasimama.

After choir practice I stop into visit Pasta, my VEO (village executive officer). “Pasta, I think the school boys have stolen my cat like they have stolen my flowers” I say. At 6:30 p.m. on a Thursday evening Pasta is hard at work in the village office-a musky brick hut with two desks and a lot of hand written documents strewn about two shelves. He stops what he is doing and looks at me very seriously. Pasta is a small, charismatic man. He always wears a detective-like hat and is constantly smiling his bright yellowy smile. Past experience with volunteers has apparently shown him that pet matters are of grave importance. “No good.” he says, his only two English word “when has Milo left?” he asks while getting up from his previously important work. “Yesterday afternoon” I say very seriously “they have picked him like they picked my flowers and they have dropped him somewhere like they have dropped my flowers”. Now he knows I am joking. Tanzanians typically do not understand sarcasm, but Pasta and I have spent so much time together he knows that I rarely get upset, and when I do, I use few words. He sits back down, and we discuss the possible whereabouts of the cat.

It’s now dark and for some reason I’m not too concerned about Milo. A few sips of my safari lager sooths the few pangs of guilt I had for not keeping a closer eye; however, there’s not much one can do about it. Pet does not translate in Kiswahili. Animals are for working and eating. Perhaps a plump little one with a shiny collar running around at all hours of the night is screaming “stew me”. Pasta has alerted the neighbors and the town is on the look out. My mzungu ways have again distinguished me from my neighbors, but my sense of humor brings me back in. Flora opens another beer and we discuss names for my next animal, a cat maybe named “kiti moto” (slang for pork). “Greeta” says Peter, one of my adult English students “you eat Kiti moto? But I thought you were Muslim”. Pasta and I laugh loudly and a whole new can of worms is opened. I forget about Milo.

The next morning I awake at 6 a.m. There’s a cat call at the door, it’s Milo. She struts in and plops down exhaustedly on the couch. I think to myself, Flora may not hold the feline monopoly for long as I lay listening to the school children on their way to class.

***FYI*** Tanzanians do not all eat cats and dogs. Wabena, my local tribe, may on occasion eat one if it's available and they're hungry enough, or so I have been told. They do however delite in a tasty little roast guinea pig; my guinea pigs, Bob and Mkude are safe in the confines of my courtyard, they provide me with great samadi for my garden. My chickens, Wilma and Betty, will most definately be a christmas dinner after they stop producing me with fresh and delicious eggs...that is, after they start producing me with fresh delicious eggs. They are free range and return for a nice nights sleep with Bob and Mkude...for some reason they prefer the guinea pig area to the nests I've made them.