“The sheep just fell through the roof.”

I know, I know. Most of you are probably already aware of this incident. But, when events on the order of large mammals crashing unexpectedly through bedroom ceilings occur in one’s life, I feel that one needs to make the most out of it.

Some time before the incident, I had returned from school to find Aziz entering his room, clothes dripping and not a shower article in sight.

“What happened?” I asked.

“Oh, I was just washing the sheep.”

Right, clearly. Why hadn’t I thought of that?

Following the trail of water he had left on the tile, I went onto the roof to investigate. Sure enough, there was one large “mouton” in my usual sunset-watching/internet-catching corner, looking at me as though I was invading his territory.

It brought up a question that has perpetually haunted my days in Dakar: exactly what would happen if one were to be charged by a sheep?

I discovered early on that sheep will on occasion glare and paw the ground in a way that I had previously mentally designated to more threatening animals like bulls. There were a number of sheep that could be found in expanse of grass and dirt in my neighborhood, which I generally call “park” for lack of a better word, where I’ve paused to stretch sometimes after running. It was upon infringing upon the area of highest grass concentration that I was first exposed to the ground-pawing. I didn’t infringe much further. Because, honestly, I don’t know what would happen if one were to be charged by a sheep. I know that sounds like a silly question, but, seriously: would it be problematic? Would it be able to knock you down? Exactly how hard and pointy is that forehead? When there are sheep at many street corners, even crossing many streets, tied to the top of one’s public transportation or perched – evidently in an inadequately secure manner – on top of one’s house, this is an important thing to know.

That was one of the more striking things about Dakar for me when I first arrived. I’m used to making a clear distinction between “city” and “country”. “City” is where there are tall buildings and heavy car traffic and closely-spaced commercial buildings and residences; “country” is where animals walk around. Dakar has both. There are all kinds of buildings crammed against each other, and enough motor vehicles to keep the sand and exhaust hanging in the air. There are also groups of goats crossing the road or tied in front of houses and horse-drawn charettes on the street. Rather battered-looking cats and dogs are prevalent, and rarely belong to anyone. Most common, however, were the sheep.

You’ll note that I use the past tense. About a block away from my house, there were a number of sheep, always ready to bleat or glare at passers by. Now, there are a number of sheep skins, hardening in the sun and curling at the edges.

Wednesday was Tabaski, the most important holiday of the Muslim calendar. As I experienced it, it’s very similar to Korité, with one important addition: every family kills a sheep – or several. Some students’ families had nearly as many sheep as people, and Senegalese families are known for being large. And this isn’t the sterile, far-removed, oh-look-it-just-magically-became-edible killing to which I’m accustomed. The men return from the mosque in the morning, where the imam has just killed the first sheep, and bring the sheep into the kitchen, where the women have been cooking for some time (I must say that I’m very impressed with the sheep-on-stairs skills of my male family members). The younger men hold the sheep’s legs and head against the tiles of the floor, while head of the family pulls out a knife about as long as my upper arm and which I seriously hope was sharper than it looked. I had braced myself for an utterly horrible spectacle – not that my fingers were going white around the door frame or anything – but there actually wasn’t any writhing or sound, just a lot of blood. As in, a reasonably-sized puddle of blood. You could follow the drops on the floor up two flights of stairs back to the roof, even after Sokhna and my visiting older sister Fanar had poured water on the floor and slid rags around beneath their feet.

Under the cloth canopy set up against the clear, hot sun on the roof, the project of turning this large, recently alive fuzzy thing into our lunch began, and I’ll admit to being glad to have not seen most of that. Instead, I sat downstairs helping (read: working on homework, periodically asking if there was anything I could do to help, and on rare occasions taking bowls up to the roof for more meat) Fanar cooking the rest of the meal: french fries, onion sauce, and (alxamdulilaay) fresh vegetables. Sitting on a wooden stool opposite Sokhna, waiting to be directed to do something, she told me the story of Tabaski, a story which, to my surprise, I knew well.

Ibrahima – Abraham – did everything God asked of him, even when, one day, God asked him to sacrifice his only son Isaac. His mother cried, but Isaac asked only that his father tie him up before killing him, so that he wouldn’t accidentally thrash and risk hurting his father. Ibrahima prepared everything as God asked, but, just as he brought down the knife, it became as this one – Sokhna demonstrated with the dull blade she held, pressing it against her skin – it didn’t even hurt. Because God, it turned out, had been testing Ibrahima. And God sent a sheep for him to sacrifice instead. That’s why we rejoice every year when we kill the sheep – because it’s a sheep in place of a son.

After lunch, everyone puts on their new clothes. This time I’d had a boubou tailor-made, as is fairly common here. People visit their family and friends. A few choice restaurants and bars fill to far outside of the doors.

And, now, the streets are noticeably sheep-free. It’s funny how a context will change you, even after only three months. I never would have told you that I’d be noticing the lack of farm animals on my walk to campus. Then again, I wouldn’t have told you that I would notice not being too warm and mentally remark upon it as an exciting moment – in the last week of November. I wouldn’t have told you that I wouldn’t notice the piles of dirt, trash, and chunks of concrete as more than obstacles. The other day, I spent almost my entire evening shower trying to remember what it was that I had found so problematic about the facilities – and, as you may recall, I had found them very problematic. The other day, I saw a black person who I thought was white.

I know; you’re not supposed to describe people as “black” or “white” like that, not in the U.S. Stay tuned for more in a future post about how it’s not like that here, at all. The point is that, for all that I try to keep myself from doing it, I notice when I see another tubaab. In terms of noticing me, those rare tan-colored creatures fall into two categories: either they’ll wave or smile in solidarity over the fact that, no matter who we are or how different our lives, we are sharing the experience of being so obviously different, with all the stares and demands and special treatment that goes along with it, or else they’ll studiously avoid my eyes, since of course we can’t notice each other’s skin color rather than the basic and colorblind humanity that equally unites everyone on the street. I’ve been both types of tubaab, at one time or another.

That other day, though, I saw a tubaab from a ways away (we’re quite easy to spot), and, as usual, wondered first if she were a student in my program and then, as she got closer and I realized she wasn’t, who she was and what she was doing here. And then, as she got even closer, I realized that she wasn’t a tubaab. In fact, in the U.S., I would without a doubt have thought of her as black. She was probably mixed-race. Again, at the risk of being stoned to death for my political incorrectness: I’ve always thought of people who are half black and half white as being black. They looked black to me. I mean – Barack Obama’s black. He clearly looks like a black person.

Well: I saw a short post-U.S.-election clip on TV a few weeks ago, and, upon my first glance at the screen, I thought, there’s a group of tubaabs like me. And then I realized that one of them was my president.

And this seems fairly superficial: what does it really matter whether I categorize someone as “black” or “white” in my head? It stands to reason that my reflexes tune to the norm of where I am, that I notice deviations from that norm and categorize deviations together more loosely. What’s weird is that race seems like something that is obviously fixed. You fall into one visible category or another or another, you always have, and you always will. It’s genetic. And that’s true: as long as I don’t decide to get major cosmetic surgery, I’m going to keep my skin color and basic physical features. My genes gave me that. But it’s my context that makes me an Estonian or an Eastern European or a “Caucasian/White” à la standardized test or a tubaab, indistinguishable from Spaniards, Germans, and even occasionally Arabs. And I believed this, intellectually, before I came here; it’s just something else entirely to actually experience how quickly my own reflexes can change, and about things that I thought were so basic. Three months later, I notice a lack of sheep.

And I think it’s healthy to be able to shift, even a little bit, one’s frame of reference about surroundings or facilities or race. Then again, it disturbed me quite a bit several days ago to make it a block away from a talibé before I realized that I had just walked past a hungry, dirty child begging me for change – and it hadn’t even disrupted my train of thought. It doesn’t emotionally affect me anymore, because I see those kids every day. I am nearly oblivious to extreme poverty as everything except an obstacle – what’s wrong with me?

“It’s intense, the first time you see a sheep killed like that,” my host uncle said. They were impressed that I watched without visibly freaking out at all. But, then again, I was safely off to the side – they were the ones in the puddle of blood.

Given this, unfortunately, I may have to wait until next year before Tabaski to discover what really happens when you’re charged by a sheep.