The first time a sausage fell out of his cabbage styled hair, he was confused. He was cautiously observing a goat in the undergrowth outside whilst squeezing his abdominals in the hope he would generate a 6 pack. In the same moment, he was enjoying the new-car smell of the Mercedes-Benz he was reclining in. That’s when a sausage landed on his lap.
It was a thick sausage, long and sexual. Being Nigeria, there was a chronic lack of sausages of the meaty, glutinous filling – since the Civil War had turned most farm animals into garbage or gristle and this made the man with the cabbage hair obscenely curious as to its contents. At the same time, he felt a hot heaviness floating above his neck, a tactile heat, as if someone were holding their palm above the surface of the skin. Having always suspected himself of having a 6th sense at least, and a 7th or 12th at minimum as his manifold destiny extended itself, the man with the cabbage head looked up suddenly from the sausage that had fixated him.
The mangy white goat was staring at him intensely, standing sideways under a banana tree in the brown sandy jungle. Its beady black eyes locked on his with disconcerting efficiency. Its upper lip smeared over its buck tooth grin. The stumpy horns above its frowning brow cocked, went to the left as if in query, and then flattened like a cat.
“Step on it Jojo!” the man cried to his driver, “He’s after my sausage!”
But it was too late, because as he looked into Jojo’s dumb custardy eyes in the rear view mirror, a second goat torpedoed through the window. The world exploded into glass and hysterical bleating as the Mercedes veered wildly. The man with the cabbage hair made as if to grab the headrest, his abdominals squeezing painfully as the fateful sausage flew off his lap.
Another goat exploded through the passenger window head first, missiling into Jojo’s head so that all the man with cabbage hair saw was red splatter and a silhouetted rag doll with a mushy skull flopping over the front seat. He kicked at the bleating teeth as the seats swerved beneath him, slamming into the door. The car had jerked to a halt. Huge goat shaped indentations mushroomed in the ceiling. Were the goats attacking from the sky?
Another final flurry of berserk bleating and the goat that had decapitated Jojo stopped suddenly. The half-embedded goat opposite it slumped out of the window. The man reached out dizzily, trying to reclaim the fugitive sausage under the seat, but it wobbled and slipped from his grip like a greasy soap on the shower floor, and as he fumbled he felt the goat leader getting closer and closer.
That was when a second sausage fell out of his head. And then another, and then a third, all immaculately juicy and filled with glistening meat.
“They are your brains.” He heard the Goat Leader say in a Nigerian accent.
“My brains are made of sausage?” The man repeated, disbelievingly.
“Thees news to you mon?” asked the Goat Lord.
The man did not wait to answer. He desperately began stuffing the sausages into his mouth, biting madly and gulping, until all the juices ran over his chin and down his collar bones. But, no matter how many he ate, more and more sausages kept falling from his head.
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