Illustration by Lindsay Stripling
I can’t recall how old I was when my father first slaughtered a goat for Christmas. That was my first of many witnesses to the spilling of blood. Animal blood. After slitting the goat’s neck, my father held it over a hole in the ground so the blood could drain into it. I gawked at him. Seeing I wanted answers, he said, “Blood is precious!”
In my country, Nigeria, traditionalist worshipers sacrifice the blood of animals to various gods, sprinkling the blood on their wooden or stone altars, not unlike the way Christians sprinkle the blood of Jesus on their lives by faith. Those mysteries of blood baffled me as a curious child who loved to understand why people do what they do. The blood continues to flow, either from rams for Sallah or goats and fowls for Christmas or pigs for traditional ceremonies. The result also means more meat — sauced and garnished.
For years I thought meat was more important than blood, because it goes into the kitchen and finally to the stomachs of hungry people, while blood drips down under layers of dirt, where it is buried and forgotten. Biology taught me otherwise, that blood is the life of the organism. And when you are out of blood, you are out of life.
As I grew older, I inherited my father’s place in slaughtering birds and goats for Christmas and other special occasions. Then I read in the Bible that humans shall not kill. And, that when you kill animals for food, you don’t eat their blood. Instead, you bury it. Because blood is life, blood is precious.
My point is neither to glorify nor to condemn festivity. Or to judge meat-eaters or celebrate those who choose not to eat meat. The point is not even about creed or philosophy or what is right or wrong. The point is blood itself. Animal and human blood, shed since the dawn of time and still being shed as if it didn’t matter.
But blood does matter, regardless of whose it is.
After years of slaughtering animals for holiday observances, I learned that the blood of goats is as red as the blood of fowls. And when I mistakenly cut myself in the process of cutting meats to size, I discovered that my blood is red, too.
Now I feel like I have developed a telepathic way of hearing the mutterings of blood. Whenever blood is spilled during festive seasons or wars or terrorist attacks, the blood in my veins quivers as if I’m receiving a strange radio signal. And whenever one race, clan or religious group attacks another, it’s like the hand stabbing the leg: The whole body suffers the effect.
My sudden realization of the homogenous color of the blood of many species, races and religions led to my slow, silent withdrawal from my role as a holiday executioner. I would rather volunteer for any preparatory role that doesn’t require the spilling of blood. Like decoration. Yes, house decoration is a big deal during Christmas. It is as important as cooking and baking.
The more I listen to the murmuring of blood, its voice licking from the soil where it has been trampled upon and forgotten like Abel’s blood, the more I pray to avert war or anything that might lead to bloodshed. And if I’m to kill any animal for food, I choose the fastest and least painful procedure possible.
The history of humankind is the history of blood. And that, I think, is why humanity has grown indifferent to its cries.
Consider that history, from the first person who drew blood in the earliest of days to the violence of our so-called civilized age: The greedy massacre of the Congolese people by Belgium’s King Leopold II. The First and Second World Wars. The Holocaust. The bloodbath of the #EndSARS protests against police brutality in Nigeria. The unending wars in the Middle East. The fight for one God or another. The beasts of racism and tribalism. By all means, it seems, the blood keeps flowing. Trickling underground unnoticed. Or maybe noticed but ignored.
It takes a special kind of awakening to hear the murmurs or see the preciousness of blood. I have learned that every time we spill another’s blood, something spills out from us, too. And that’s humanity seeping out of our soul, pint by pint, after every unnecessary kill.
I have learned that the uniformity in the color of blood among vertebrates, especially among humans, is a message from the universe, from God the father of all, that we are one. That we are connected regardless of creed, religion or race. That our connections are greater than our differences.
I have learned that whether we shed blood for food, atonement or protection, or to defend our country or family, blood is still precious. And it’s divine to spill less of it.
Joseph Hope is an essayist, fiction writer and poet. His work has appeared in the Christian Science Monitor, Augur, Riddlebird and other venues. Find him on X @ItzJoe9.