Some stories arrive long before the music does. Goats, Tea and Trouble began as a slow-burning tale told under starlight—a dreamlike fable set on Africa’s western coast, where ancient spells, unruly goats, and firelit music blur the line between myth and memory.

This song is the echo of that story: a soundscape born from a nomad’s bonfire, a missing cloth, and the quiet resistance of people who still live by rhythms older than time. Before you listen, read the story that inspired it.

The story

The events of this tale unfold across a single night—from sunset to sunrise—on a warm, mid-June evening along an undisclosed stretch of Africa’s western coastline. Though the story was initially imagined between Safi and Essaouira, its landscape and rhythms more closely resemble rural coastal Mauritania. This ambiguity is intentional. The story does not anchor itself to a specific time or place, instead evoking an atmosphere both ancient and ongoing.

The community in which it takes place is humble and enduring. Locals live in wooden shacks and improvised huts, nestled along the beachside, living off the sea and the sparse gifts of the land. Their routines are defined by simplicity and a deep, shared respect for the pace of nature. There is no electricity. Evenings are lit by fire, and companionship thrives under starlight.

Our protagonist is a solitary shepherd, a nomad by tradition and temperament. He travels with his herd of goats, walking long distances along the coast, gathering not only grazing grounds for his animals but also small treasures—fossils, mineral fragments, bones polished by salt and time. These finds, once gathered, are sold in the nearest souk markets, helping him to sustain his modest needs.

On this particular day, the shepherd is slowly making his way along the shoreline, watching the seagulls circle in anticipation of the fishermen’s return. A few of his goats trail behind, nosing through sand and seaweed. Among the rocks, he spots a beautifully preserved ammonite fossil—large, spiraled, and glinting faintly in the amber dusk. He lifts it with both hands, nods quietly to himself, and carries it back to his camp: a simple rug spread on the sand near some twisted argan trees, where the rest of his herd is scattered, munching on the sparse vegetation.

The shepherd’s belongings are few. A jute sack for his finds. A weathered cart he pulls by hand when the load demands it. His clothing is functional, made of rough cloth in earthen tones. By tradition, some colors and patterns are forbidden—those reserved for other castes or sacred roles—so his garments remain deliberately plain.

As the sun dips behind the Atlantic horizon, the shepherd prepares a fire. He gathers what driftwood and scrub he can find, arranging the logs carefully and striking a flint. The flame takes hold, and slowly, warmth spreads around him. The fire is his ritual—protection against wild animals, heat through the cold night, and a place to cook a simple meal.

Not far from his camp is a beach shack that serves tea. It is more than a café; it is the community’s gathering point, where wanderers and locals meet, trade news, and play music. There are no lights save for oil lanterns and firelight. The soundscape is alive with the soft hiss of boiling kettles, murmurs of conversation, and the drifting melodies of traditional instruments.

The shepherd walks over, leaving his goats to their usual calm and cunning. One of them—a particularly self-assured creature—follows him, trotting across the sand as if on an evening promenade. At the shack, the musicians have begun their nightly session. They come from various places, bringing with them stringed instruments, drums, and flutes. Tonight, a Maghrebi Rebab sings above the rhythm, its bowed tones mingling with laughter and steam.

The goat, as if drawn by the music, steps confidently onto the shack’s open porch, ears twitching. Moments later, it slips into the shadows and returns holding a strip of cloth between its teeth. A laugh escapes from a nearby table. Someone shouts. It’s not the first time.

What follows is a sequence of mischief, both comic and strange. The goat disappears into the dark, and tales begin to fly—this wasn’t the only cloth stolen recently. In fact, night after night, goats from this herd have been seen stealing small items from the village: shawls, towels, even a shoe once. No one can explain it. People chase after them, but they are swift, vanishing into the dunes.

Villagers approach the shepherd’s fire later that night—not with anger, but with weary amusement. Some bring the goats back. Others just want to sit, to share tea, to ask why this happens. The shepherd smiles, says little. The truth is more complicated than they’d believe.

According to old legends passed down through his family, the goats are under an ancient spell, bound to steal things—perhaps as an echo of trade, or a warning about taking what isn’t freely given. The curse, it is said, doesn’t just affect the nomad. It affects the buyers and the thieves too. They feel it differently. They feel it harder.

Yet among the locals, this has become a quiet ritual of its own. A reason to step out into the night. A pretext to speak with the shepherd, whom they see as a relic of a truer, older way of life. As modernity presses in from the edges, these late-night visits become a form of resistance—soft, human, rooted in story.

When the last visitor has gone, and all the goats have returned (save the one still chewing on a piece of someone’s headscarf), the shepherd lays back beside his fire and stares up at the stars. He dreams, sometimes, of things he is not meant to do. He dreams of selling the land’s fat, of playing music for money, of breaking the old codes. And in the dreams, someone always laughs when he gets it wrong. Then he wakes.

Dawn breaks. The sky lightens. Goats begin to stir. A new day begins, the way it always has.

The ammonite fossil lies on the shore. It hasn’t moved. Not yet.

LISTEN NOW 🎧

The song is already available on the major Digital Service Providers for your convenience.

Videoclip

I am currently working on the videoclip for the song, which will be soon distributed on the major channels.

The video, generated scene by scene using AI, visually reimagines the story’s slow-burning magic and quiet absurdity. This piece lives somewhere between myth and memory—a tribute to all things untamed, unspoken, and strangely beautiful.

The song itself weaves together raw acoustic textures and sparse instrumentation, echoing the windblown silence of the coast and the quiet mischief of the night.

The shepherd may be imaginary—but the story, the sound, and the spell are real.