It all started with a dream.
Uncle Shedrack had convinced himself that he was a 'serial entrepreneur,' so to speak. He'd tried selling recharge cards, opened a roadside car wash with one bucket; what's more, he had even attempted importing umbrellas from Cotonou during the dry season.
But it was the goat business that actually took us off guard.
He lived with us—me, my mother, and my brothers—in a modest two bedroom flat tucked away in the heart of Aderigbigbe. The neighbhoood had its quirks: erratic power supply, endless generator noise, and that one neighbor who believed NEPA was personally out to ruin her life.
Uncle Shedrack barged in one hot Tuesday afternoon, dripping sweat and excitement.
"I've seen it! My calling!" he declared, tossing a crumpled flier on the table.
"Goat farming?" Mum squinted at the paper and looked at me as if she was almost about to laugh before entering the kitchen.
"Livestock is the future! Do you know how much one goat sells for in December?" Uncle Shedrack asked, raising a brow.
"I don't" I simply said. My brothers just looked away, while my mum was like, " what's selling by December, o!?" She shouted all the way from the kitchen.
My brother, Chima, quickly Googled it and announced, "Thirty thousand naira."
Uncle Shedrack almost fainted. "Thirty thousand? For a goat that eats grass? Ah! I must enter this business!" He exclaimed, sitting down to calculate.
That was how the madness began.
First, he borrowed money from our neighbor Mama Fatimah, a notorious gossiper with suspicious generosity. She handed him the sum of fifty thousand naira after he promised her a 200% profit by Christmas.
Subsequently, he bought two goats: a tired-looking female called Monica and an aggressive male named Buhari. Why he named a goat after a former president remains one of life's unanswered questions.
He built a goat pen in the backyard using broken planks, rusted zinc, and old crates from Mr. Lawal's beer parlor.The whole thing leaned like a drunk uncle at a wedding.
"They just need shelter," he insisted as if he were arguing with someone behind him. "Not Buckingham Palace." he muttered, looking around until our eyes met. I immediately removed my gaze, pretending I was clearing the cobwebs around our door post.
Chaos unfolded three days later.
Boom! Buhari escaped!
We all woke up one calm, beautiful morning and found Mama Ngozi's vegetable garden demolished, filled with Buhari's sprint. That woman could forgive anything but an attack on her okra.
"Jesus! My Garden!" We heard her scream. "Which demon sent this animal?" she asked with an increased tone.
I dropped what I was doing and rushed outside, only to see Buhari gleefully chewing on a pawpaw leaf, dancing through the corn stalks like a possessed ballerina.
Then the real horror appeared.
Bam! Mama Ngozi!
She stormed into our compound like thunder wrapped in a wrapper. Her headscarf was halfway off, her slippers flying with every step. In one hand, she held what used to be a cassava stick but had now evolved into a weapon of mass correction.
"Shedrack!" she roared. Come out now and face your judgement," her voice echoed with unintelligible rage.
Uncle Shedrack, peeked through the window, looking suspicious, like someone who is about to fake a coma. "Ah, Mama Ngozi, take it easy ..."
"Take what easy? This goat has destroyed my okra, uprooted my yam seedlings, and even tried to eat my Slippers! What sort of perverted livestock are you raising?"
"Mama Ngozi, please take it easy, please calm down; we'll definitely pay for the damage," I said calmly.
"From where?" she snapped. "Your uncle doesn't even own a real belt!" she said, scanning Uncle Shedrack from his toes to his head with a raging eye.
Uncle Shedrack, offended, lifted his T-shirt to show off his rope-belt. "This is eco-friendly fashion, madam!" he said.
In the end, we had to offer Monica as a peace offering. Uncle Shedrack wept like a man handing over his bride on her wedding day.
"Take care of her," he whispered dramatically, wiping away a tear as Mama Ngozi dragged Monica away by the neck. "She likes her water lukewarm and hates gospel music." he said sadly.
Buhari was locked up with extra rope and a heavy stone placed by the gate " just in case" my Uncle Shedrack would say.
Later that night, Uncle Shedrack sat by his empty pen, sipping garri with a spoon and shaking his head. Thinking how his plans had turned upside down; what's more, he still had to pay the 200% profit to Mama Fatimah. "So close to a breakthrough, he muttered. "So close. But don't worry, nephew. Plan B is coming." he encouraged himself while speaking with me.
"What's Plan B?" I asked curiously.
"He looked me dead in the eyes and said, "Snail farming."
Immediately, I stood up and went to my chores.
And he was like, "What!? What! Did I say something wrong?"
"No," I shouted sarcastically, still moving.
If there's one thing I have learned living with Uncle Shedrack, It's that trying to make ends meet might not always pay the bills—but it will definitely give you stories for life.
And Maybe a goat named after a president.
THANKS A LOT FOR READING