A Chicken Dinner

A chicken dinner is a simple enough thing, or at least it should be. But it has proven to be more difficult than I imagined. There is not grocery store that carries prepared chickens (killed and “undressed”). One butcher shop in town advertizes them but every time I have gone there, they been sold out. The last time I was there, they assured me they would have more this week. I carefully explained to Josephine, my house help, what I wanted when I sent her to the market on Thursday. I emphasized that I DID NOT want a live chicken. Whether it was her poor English or my poor Kinyarwanda or her great desire to please, I don’t know. She returned with a live rooster, legs tied together, wings flapping as he squawked his objection. I have an aversion to live chickens. When I was in Malawi, my house staff and my sons knew that and handled any gifts of chickens for me. They know better than to buy one. When I saw Josephine’s purchase, I let out a shriek of my own. She immediately called Jean Baptist and made arrangements for him to handle the rooster when he came for the evening. In the meantime, she put it in the laundry room and it periodically voiced its objection with loud squawks.

The escaped rooster

When Jean Baptist arrived, the squawking increased. The cleaver rooster had freed his legs from the ties and when Jean Baptist opened the laundry room door, the rooster shot past him, escaping into the yard. He led Jean Baptist on a loud chase around the yard. At one point, he darted under the new fence, escaping the yard. He crowed boldly, as if celebrating his victory. Jean Baptist had to find his keys for the gate, since he could not squeeze under the fence. Just as John Baptist got out the gate, the rooster ran back through the fence and into the yard. The chase continued until I heard a loud squawk and a thud. Jean Baptist came to the kitchen door and asked for a knife and a pan of hot water. The rooster had lost the battle. About an hour later, Jean Baptist presented me with chicken parts prepped for the pot. Dinner could be cooked. Jean Baptist feasted on the head and feet, as a snack that evening, well earned from all chasing. I am more convinced than ever to avoid live chickens. This dinner was not worth the hassle to all involved.