I’m a PR guy in my day job and I chat with the press all the time. Oddly enough, though, the toughest question I ever faced came not from a reporter but from a Kenyan man in his eighties.
And I blew the answer.
On Christmas day in 2010, my family and I were with friends in Kenya. We’d been invited to a Kenyan family compound more than an hour outside Nairobi – the only white folk for miles. The patriarch, a man in his eighties, showed me around. We came to a spot where the cook, a man the family hired for the day, was barbequing a goat. The cook smiled at me and proudly held up an oddly shaped black mass for my inspection.
“What is that?” I asked.
“That is the goat’s head,” the patriarch said, apparently a little surprised that I hadn’t recognized it.
I watched the cook scrape away the charcoal surface of the goat’s head.
“What will you do with it?” I asked.
“Make soup,” he said and looked at me as if it were a rather obvious answer. Then he cocked his head.
“What do you do with your goats’ heads?” he asked.
To this day I have no idea how to answer that question.