This story is from my new collection of short stories titled “Legends of the Black Water“. Click on the link to purchase the full collection. Enjoy the read.
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“Me, Mr Rogers? Me?” Mildred protested, clutching her chest with exaggerated offense. “I would never do a thing like that!”
Mr Rogers gave her a long, contemptuous look before continuing in his low monotone, “If I lose another goat, is hell to pay. Don’t mek me sin me soul, yuh hear?”
“Is threaten you threatening me, Mr Rogers?” Mildred bristled, hands on her hips. “I never tief—”
Mr Rogers sucked his teeth, turned his back on her, and hobbled away on his spindly, uneven legs, disappearing into his yard.
Mildred stood rooted to the spot, mouth agape, her face contorted in rage. She wheeled around, ensuring her voice carried far enough for the neighbours to hear.
“But de idiocity[1] of this man, eh? Who de ass want tief he dry-up, deh-bad[2] goats? And is who he threatening anyway? He dry-up just like he blasted goats! He think he could beat me or anybody fuh me? Talking bout don’t mek he sin he soul!” She sucked her teeth loud and long.
With an indignant flounce, she stormed back to her little shack, but the moment she stepped inside, her frown melted into a mischievous grin.
“Tief he goats?” she scoffed, shaking her head as she latched the door behind her. “I tek[3] de goats! How dare they come in me yard?”
The truth is the goats never actually entered her yard. They would stretch their necks over the fence to nibble at the lush tomato plants Mildred had strategically planted close to the fence. A perfect trap. If no one was home at the Rogers’ house when a goat came a-nibbling, she—or her son, Milroy—would seize the opportunity. The moment the goat’s head dipped over the fence, they would grab it, maa-ing and all, yanking it into their yard.
A sharp thump to the head rendered the creature unconscious. Within minutes, it was dragged behind the bathroom, where it was swiftly gutted, cleaned, and prepared for a sumptuous meal of Curried Goat.
Milroy, as always, had the final task: sneaking out in the dead of night to dump the bucket of entrails into the gully at Blueberry Hill, where the community discarded their refuse.
The Blueberry Hill Bridge over the old train line.
Mildred’s husband, Robert, never participated in these little rituals.
In fact, he hated it. He really didn’t feel comfortable about his wife and stepson stealing the Rogers’ goats but no matter how many times he grumbled his disapproval, Mildred and Milroy continued their goat-stealing ways.
Sometimes, to protest, he would reject his plate outright, but this only served to infuriate Mildred and set off a storm of nagging that could last a whole week. And truly, there is nothing worse than a week of wife’s nagging—not even eating tiefing curry goat.
So, after a while, he gave in. He ate the damn goat.
It wasn’t that the taste was bad—hell, Mildred was an excellent cook. But it was the principle, man. Still, what was principle against a week of relentless pecking?
* * *
Mildred wasn’t a thief, she constantly assured herself. It was just that sometimes things were brown[4] in her household—money was tight, and the goats provided a few days’ worth of good food for what otherwise would be hungry bellies.
And really, she couldn’t understand why that damn pretentious Robert was ‘mekkin styles’[5] about eating the goat—as if he was providing any better! If he was working every single day and bringing home money every single week, like other men in the community—like Mr Rogers, for example—then she wouldn’t have to do this!
Look at how Mr Rogers provided for his family. He worked hard. He made sure they had nice clothes, new curtains every Christmas, fresh paint on the house—all the things Mildred could only dream of.
And the worst part? Mr Rogers was stingy. Every Christmas, he would butcher a cow and several goats, and not once had he sent a single scrap of beef or goat meat her way.
“But how people could stay suh, eh?”[6] Mildred fumed.
She, on the other hand, was generous.
As poor as she was, she would send a slice of black cake over to Sandra next door, or exchange Christmas goodies with Hyacinth across the road.
But the curry goat?
Never. That was a secret she was not about to share.
Besides, the Rogers were too damn uppity.
Mildred, Robert, and Milroy lived in a tiny wooden shack, pieced together with old boards and zinc sheets they had scavenged from around the community. But the Rogers lived in a fancy two-story house, with real glass windows they would peer through—watching, judging.
They never spoke to anybody in the neighborhood.
Except for Ms Wilson.
Oh, she was good enough for them. Living in her big house at the corner, with her children sending English pounds from London like money was nothing.
And the Jones family. Rich enough to have a shop, a garage, and two motor cars parked in front of their two-story house—like they were some kinda royalty.
But the rest of them? They weren’t good enough for the Rogers. That’s why Mr Rogers never shared Christmas meat. That’s why they looked down on everyone.
And that’s why Mildred didn’t feel bad.
“No, that Mr. Rogers was too damn greedy and bigshaust[7] wid heself. Leh he tek duh fuh thinking he better than people!”
So, every now and then, one of Mr Rogers’ goats disappeared.
* * *
Mr Rogers sat in his living room, staring through the window into Mildred’s yard.
He knew.
He had never actually seen Mildred or Milroy stealing his goats, but he knew. Goat after goat had disappeared, and every single time, within hours, the savory aroma of curry and spices drifted into his house. Mocking him!
Then came the final straw.
His only ram vanished. Now, how was he supposed to breed his nanny goats? How was he supposed to make a few extra dollars?
It was bad enough that he had to worry every day about paying the mortgage at the end of the month without having to worry about his stock disappearing. The meat and milk sales were a lifeline—he was already a month behind on his mortgage, and now this? He couldn’t afford to lose any more animals. So Mr Rogers decided to talk to Mildred about the goats. But that bumptious, brazen woman lied to him in his face.
That’s it! He was done talking.
The next morning, Mr Rogers caught the 5:30 a.m. Tata bus to Georgetown. He told no one where he was going.
When he returned late that night, a brown crocus bag was slung over his shoulders.
His hobble was heavier now, his steps more uneven under the weight of his burden. He said nothing. Under the perfect cover of darkness, he went straight to the goat pen. He emerged a few minutes later with a sly look on his face. As if by command, the air grew thick and sour. Dogs barked at shadows. Lamps flickered without breeze.
* * *
A few days later, Mildred spotted a goat reaching over the fence, chomping lazily on the leaves of her five-finger tree. Her heart leapt.
She glanced at the Rogers’ house.
Shut tight.
Everyone was at work or school.
This was her moment. Free reign!
Mavis crept toward the five-finger tree. The goat munched happily, oblivious to the danger it faced. Just as she had done countless times before, Mildred lunged, grabbing it by the horns and yanking it over.
The goat made no sound.
With practiced skill, she strangled it, dragged it inside, and in no time at all, it was gutted, cleaned, and seasoned.
Mildred chuckled.
“Oh lawd! Curry goat!”
* * *
When Robert returned home that evening after a long, fruitless day of searching for work, a feast greeted him.
Curried Goat, steaming hot.
The aroma filled the tiny shack, rich and tantalizing, but instead of making his mouth water, it made his stomach turn.
Because it wasn’t just Curried Goat sitting on the table. It was a reminder of his failure. How did Mildred not understand? How did she not see what this meant? Did she really think he was okay with the fact that she had to resort to stealing to put food on the table? He wished she were a bit more contented.
It’s not like he wasn’t trying. Every day, he joined the long line of men outside the bauxite company, waiting, hoping to get a day’s work. Sometimes, he was lucky to be hired as a casual worker for a few weeks at a time. When that happened, things were nice for a while. Even a casual bauxite worker could earn enough to make life a little easier.
But then, there were the bad times—when weeks turned into months without a job, when he had to hustle odd jobs just to keep them afloat.
And Mildred? Instead of understanding, she wanted more. She wanted Mr. Rogers’ life—the big house, the glass windows, the Christmas meat.
Maybe one day, when he got a permanent position, they could finally build something real, something like Mr. Rogers’ house.
But until then—
“Why can’t she just bear she chafe[8]?”
Tonight, he would take a stand. He wasn’t eating that flipping curry goat. Not even if she vex ‘til Christmas morning.
* * *
Across the yard, Mr Rogers got a whiff of a delightful curry emanating from Mildred’s house.
Everyone in his household was waiting for him to erupt, to storm over to Mildred’s shack and raise hell but for the first time, a goat was missing and Mr Rogers didn’t seem to care.
Instead, he chuckled—a deep, low sound from his throat.
His wife looked at him in surprise.
He smiled, a slow, knowing smile. “Is rass to pay[9] wid me and dem.” He thought.
But he said nothing.
* * *
Mildred woke up the next morning to a strange, oppressive gloom draping the room like an unseen, grey blanket.
Something was off.
A lingering unease clung to her, but she shook it off, dismissing it as morning grogginess. She rose from bed, unwrapped her nightclothes, grabbed her towel, and stepped outside.
The bathroom, a rickety wooden structure, sat in the backyard, its flat roof patched together from discarded zinc sheets. A piece of black conveyor belt covered the dirt floor, a simple fix to avoid standing on the brown sand that made up the terrain.
She turned on the standpipe. Crystal-clear water gushed into the bucket.
She dipped her calabash scoop, lifted the cool water to her skin, and poured it over herself.
Ecstasy.
Mildred closed her eyes, savoring the refreshing chill of the water against her heated skin.
Then she opened them. And screamed. The bathroom walls warped before her eyes, shifting, bending—moving.
Goats. Dead goats. Their twisted faces, frozen in grimaces of agony, emerged from every crack and crevice in the tilting structure. Their eyes—milky, lifeless—bore into her.
Mildred’s screams tore through the morning air, raw and desperate.
Inside the house, Robert and Milroy jerked awake.
Within seconds, they were outside, faces etched with confusion as they found Mildred, naked, dripping wet, pointing wildly at the empty air.
“Help me!” she screeched, but the last word choked in her throat before she could force it out.
She saw it then. A single goat broke from the pack—cantering forward, its vacant white eyes fixed on Milroy.
“Run, Milroy!” she shrieked.
But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t even blink.
The goat charged—and then, impossibly, disappeared into his body.
Milroy’s expression remained unchanged. Like nothing had happened.
Then there was silence. The goats were gone. All gone.
Mildred’s breath came in ragged gasps as she frantically searched the space around her.
“Deh just been hay. Deh just been hay, ah tell yuh[10]!”
But Robert and Milroy only exchanged uneasy glances.
And then—
They looked at her.
Not with concern.
With amazement.
Mildred took a shaky step forward.
Something wasn’t right.
Their expressions—why did they look like that?
“Wait—y’all ain’t believe me?” she demanded, eyes darting from one to the other. “One just run into you, Milroy! You didn’t feel it? I ain’t crazy!”
Robert and Milroy remained frozen, staring at her as though she were a stranger.
Then, Milroy opened his mouth—
And bleated.
Robert’s entire body tensed. His head snapped toward Milroy. Did he just—? The sound was wrong. Not human.
Robert took a slow, staggered step backward, heart pounding. Something was very wrong.
“Is wha wrong with you?” Milroy asked.
Only—
It wasn’t words. It was a goat’s bleat. A distorted, guttural maa, slipping through his lips as natural as his native tongue. As if he had no control over the sound.
Robert’s eyes bulged. His stomach turned to ice. Slowly—too slowly—he turned to look at Mildred.
Her mouth quivered. Her lips hung slack, trembling, as if she were forgetting how to shape words.
Her eyes—bloodshot red—fixed onto his. She reared back. Rooting her feet into the ground.
A cold shudder raked down Robert’s spine.
“Is whuh going on hay?” he wondered, fear making his knees wobbly. Robert didn’t know if he could trust his own ears or eyes. He stared at Mildred and Milroy in stunned confusion. His frightened look seemed to aggravate Mildred.
For a split second, he was frozen. And that was all Mildred needed.
With a violent lurch, she charged—head down, barreling into his stomach with brute force.
A deep, sickening thud echoed through the yard as Robert’s body lifted off the ground.
He hit the dirt hard. But he landed on his feet. And—he ran.
Ran for his life.
His mind reeled, thoughts jumbled, frantic.
The curry goat. Yesterday. Did it have anything to do with this? Had it cursed them? Robert hadn’t eaten it. But both Mildred and Milroy had.
Mildred had gloated about how delicious it was and had mocked him for being such a jackass to waste good food. And she had laughed at him for refusing. Now something told him it was a good thing that he refused.
He had heard stories about this place, Linden.
A place full of strange happenings. But could it be—? Was it possible—?
He didn’t stop running. He never even looked back.
* * *
Mr Rogers had watched it all from behind his curtained window.
His sharp eyes followed the chaos unfolding in Mildred’s yard—her transformation, Milroy’s maa-ing, Robert’s frantic escape.
And slowly a smirk curled his lips.
He’d bet his bottom dollar there would be no more curry goat smells wafting from that yard to his. He turned from the window with a curious expression on his face.
* * *
No one knows for sure what happened to Mildred and Milroy. But everyone agrees that it had something to do with Mr Rogers’ goats.
No one in the black water community ever heard from Robert again. But from Mildred and Milroy, they heard plenty. Because for years, until they finally died, the two of them wandered through the streets—eyes red. Vacant. Muttering to themselves.
And sometimes—
When the night was quiet, and the moon was full—
They would stop in the middle of the road, throw their heads back— and bellow into the darkness.
“Maa! Maa! Maa!”
_____O_____
[1] Colloquialism for audacity
[2] In a poor state
[3] take
[4] Difficult financially
[5] Showing reluctance
[6] Why are people like that?
[7] Hifalutin
[8] Endure hardship without complaining.
[9] A variation of ‘hell to pay’.
[10] They were just here, I’m telling you.
rootsandeduculture 