Wild game for a laugh

Last Summer, while browsing food for a barbecue, I came across a range of items made out of venison. Sausages, steaks and burgers. For a second, I thought about buying a couple of things, then realised that, as Karen is not keen on wild game, I would be the only eating any, so I opted for a dozen chicken drumsticks and a few lamb chops.

Back in Algeria when I was a kid, an uncle of mine, who was a hunter, often shared his kill with us. It could be a brace of partridges or a dozen quails. He once gave us a complete haunch of venison. My mother, who had never cooked that meat before, made her usual tagine, swapping venison for lamb. The dish was a success but, as we were unaccustomed to the strong taste of wild game, that was the last time she cooked it.

A few years later, Papa was driving me to the airport in his old Citroën to catch a flight to Algiers on my way back to Newcastle.
At 75, he still drove very adeptly, having spent most of his working life on the road as an ambulance driver. He was doing around 100 km per hour on a familiar road he had used thousands of times, listening to an imam reciting Koranic verses on the radio and nonchalantly giving me a wink each time he expertly avoided a head-on collision with an oncoming juggernaut.
The road to the airport is full of twists and turns, dips and humps, but Papa kept pointing out the scenery.
“Have you got pine forests like this in England?”
“Wildflowers like those?”
“Can you smell the wild spearmint, eh? Do you have spearmint in England?”
All of a sudden, a black shape jumped in front of the car. Papa slammed the brakes on.
Screech…Too late!… Thump!!!
“Bismillah! In the name of God! Why? Why?”
I asked Papa what it was. “Khanzeer!”
“A pig? I haven’t seen a pig since the French left Algeria in 1962.”
“A wild pig, I mean. A boar.”
We got out of the car and in front of it lay a baby wild boar — no sign of life or blood.
Papa checked his dented front bumper and cursed Satan.
“This must be a bad omen. I’m not sure you should get on that plane.”
I dismissed the episode as a simple accident, but he went on mumbling.

“Qu’est-ce qui c’est passé?” A voice enquired. I turned around and recognised a French lecturer who taught at the local college. He had parked his car behind Papa’s and got out to see if we were hurt.
“Papa a tué un marcassin!” Papa has killed a baby boar.
“I did not!” Papa shouted. “The bloody thing jumped in front of me!”
A second teacher got out of the car. The two picked up the animal, placed it in their car boot and drove off with the broadest of smiles.

Later, when my brother picked me up from Algiers airport, I recounted the accident. He smiled and said: “Those French guys will probably be having a feast this evening!”