By the Idler-in-Chief
There are times when a Nyagenkean of my caliber and standing in society must briefly suspend comfort, postpone leisure, and respond to developments that threaten the balance between celebration culture and goat survival.
This is one of those moments because as I write from my office—which is basically a chair placed under a tree, Nyagenke finds itself under what experts would call a football-induced social disturbance.
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The source is not war, drought, floods or the usual political lies that promise transformation in exchange for patience, but the chasing of a round skin that occurred far away in regions that require passports, flight tickets and a bogus accent for a Nyagenkean to get there.
You know Arsenal achieved victory and here in Nyagenke, we do not measure such events in trophies or headlines, but in the induced disappearance of goats and the constant rise of smoke from roasting points that had previously been waiting for Xmas.
Since Arsenal celebrations began, Nyagenke has been transformed into an unplanned festival of sound, smoke, and enthusiastic headlines.
In response, shops of meat have extended their business hours and my kinsmen who normally exchange polite greetings have begun embracing like reunited philosophers.
They now shout motivational slogans and phrases such as “trust the process” and “North London forever,” often between mouthfuls of meat and bursts of emotional chanting.
At the same minute, the flow of what my people call “the cat’s tears” has increased significantly, producing temporary experts in football analysis, emotional forgiveness, and aggressive dancing styles that make Embaragwasing’a a joker.
This doesn’t concern me much but one voice remains consistently ignored—the goat, and this why I have declared myself the Spokesperson of All Goats in Nyagenke.
A while ago, I conducted urgent consultations across several affected homesteads, and the findings were both astounding and consistent with my suspicions.
Innocent by-standers
Goats did not participate in Arsenal’s victories or previous loses but somehow, they continue to bear the full consequences even as I type this protest note on their behalf.
Tonight, the goat that stood motionless in existential reflection when I interviewed it may appear in my dream, possibly asking why its life trajectory is repeatedly adjusted by results it cannot stream, watch, or even locate.
A he goat whose beard was longer than Bishop Mami Too’s, and whose can be a square root of 5,000 suggested, without words, that this is not a new phenomenon but he’s unsure when it will end.
Concerned by these developments, I convened an emergency consultation meeting attended by myself, several concerned goat owners, and one goat that suspected my mission.
After extended deliberations and refreshments over goat ribs, several resolutions were adopted.
Celebrations must now be conducted with awareness of livestock sustainability and football victories must not automatically translate into their depletion.
Further, consumption projections must be communicated in advance to avoid destabilizing cultural obligations such as Christmas, where goats are historically assigned ceremonial importance.
The greatest concern now is December, which is a few moons away, given that current goat eating trends suggest a future in which families may gather and explain to children that goats once existed in abundance before global football enthusiasm reached its current level.
Children will ask difficult questions, and parents will pause before whispering a single explanation that carries both pride and guilt in equal measure: “Arsenal.”
For now, I appeal to my kinsmen and women: celebrate, sing, and rejoice, but remember that somewhere stands a goat that has never heard of Arsenal, cannot locate London, and bears no contractual obligation to football history.
With all due respect, leave it out of this.
-The writer is the self-appointed Spokesman of all goats in Nyagenke. Contact: babahezel@gmail.com
