A Strange(r's) Request

Our house is one of two western style homes built and updated by missionaries over the last 40 years of their existence here in Babati. Both homes sit inside of a fenced compound. The fence itself is a dense vine called mchongoma, thin leafy branches woven back and forth over a chain link base. The vine is frequently used for fencing in Tanzania, as its density increases over time and its surface is covered in long sharp thorns. Set into this fence is a gate for each house, two large pieces of metal mounted to concrete pillars. The entire area is relatively secure.

So, for the most part, we rarely receive visitors. Because of the missionary presence over the years, people are accustomed to knowing that we will rarely buy anything someone comes to the gate selling. They also know that we do most of our business out of our office in town.

Several months after moving into the compound we learned that not everyone was yet aware of this policy. This was especially true of the young man I would come to know as “El Tigre.”

I first met “Tiger” when I was outside playing with my kids. As we ran back and forth across the small patch of grass that lines the guest huts I heard the sharp rasp of someone beating on the metal gate. I sent the kids inside as the pounding amplified. Initially the severity and frequency of the knock convinced me someone must be in danger outside. My walk turned to a run as I neared the metal entryway. I slipped the bolt from its cradle and flung open a small rectangle doorway set into the larger metal sheet of the gate. I scanned the immediate area and no one stood within 5 yards of our small entryway. But, further towards the road, sitting atop a concrete drainage canal that lines our driveway, was a smiling African teenager. He looked to be close to 18 and a disheveled mess. He had liquid dripping down the front of his chin and spilling onto his hooded sweatshirt. He reeked of alcohol. In his hand he held three small ropes that slunk to the ground and wound their way around the necks of three small puppies.

“Can I help you,” I asked in Swahili, a bit annoyed at his casual grin. Nothing about his mannerisms or posture matched the severity of the knocking I had just heard. 

He responded in perfect, although quite drunken English, “I’m here for your sperm.”

His words hung in the air, their weight filling the expanse of the distance between Tiger and myself.

I didn’t respond immediately and stood a bit slacked jawed at his request.

I finally manage to utter, “Excuse me?”

“I saw your dog in there, he’s quite large, I would like his sperm,” Tiger eventually offered as an explanation for his request of a seed. I snapped back into the reality of the conversation.

He continued, “I’ve got these ladies here, and they’ll be big soon. So please, let me buy your sperm.” I politely but firmly asked him to stop phrasing it that way and sat down next to him on the abutment.

For the next 30 minutes Tiger told me his story. He claimed to be the leader of all of the local street gangs. He had earned his moniker, “El Tigre,” by singlehandedly fighting a tiger in barehanded combat. His father was a wealthy man and had given Tiger some 100 million shillings to do with as he pleased. Thusly Tiger spent his days finding ways to spend his lucrative fortune. Among these pursuits, I assumed, was the location and purchase of sperm, although he didn’t list that specifically as one of his endeavors.  

After he had finished his diatribe, I told him that regrettably I did not want my dog mating with strangers. I was specific and clear in also including the information that as a whole no sperm was available for retail purchase on our property.

He looked at me stoically and the smile drifted from his lips, “I don’t like you, you’re a very handsome man, but you make dumb decisions.”

He launched into another lengthy speech on his nefarious criminal dealings. He told me about his many machine guns, and he casually asserted his intentions to spray paint the gate we were now standing beside.  

When he had finished, he asked me for the time.

“It’s 7 pm,” I replied, “and I need to be getting back inside.”

He looked down at the empty space on his wrist as if examining his own imaginary timepiece, “Oh, 7. Yes, the kissing hour. I need to be off. There are many girls waiting for me.”

With a tug of his makeshift leashes he stumbled down the street.  

I didn’t see “El Tigre” again for quite some time after that. I had asked around in town and learned that he was just a local kid named Godfrey. He was once a promising student but had subsequently dropped out of school and spent his days searching for odd jobs. Most often he was drunk.

One night several months later I was standing outside the gate saying goodbye to the watchman and noticed a car that was screeching up the hill. The tires whipped back and forth across the tarmac as the small vehicle sped across the pavement. A familiar face popped out the driver’s side window and screamed as it passed the thin gravel leading to where I was standing.  

“I STILL NEED YOUR SPERM!” echoed across the mountainside as Tiger barely slowed and yelled out the window.

I stood shaking my head and mumbling to myself as the vehicle disappeared up the mountain, “It’s still not for sale.”