The first time I killed a
chicken by myself was in
1993, December, in my
parents’ house in Lagos. I
nearly kill myself join.
Thanks to my early love
for horror movies, the
sight of blood did not
scare me, but I was
appalled by the idea of
killing something that
actually lived and
breathed. Besides, I hated
the shrieking of the
chickens and would not
have volunteered that
year had it not been for
Peju.
Peju was the daughter of
a neighbor, a single
mother who lived directly
opposite my parents’
house. Absolutely
gorgeous, petite, with
blue eyes and yellow hair
(more like black eyes/hair
- blame romance novels),
and she liked me. I did
not know events in the
cosmos had conspired to
help me make a fool of
myself that year.
What happened was this.
My immediate elder
brother, who usually did
the slaughtering, was
away at university. It was
his first year there and so,
probably feeling like a
‘big boy’, he refused to
come home. My other
brothers, all boys and
older, were out of the
country. It was just me,
my kid sister who was
too young to hold
anything bigger than a
Barbie doll, our parents,
and Peju, who was in my
house because her whole
family was away on a
spiritual retreat and did
not want her along.
Alas Christmas morning
dawned, and with it
came the question of
who would do the
honors of killing the
innocent chicken.
Truthfully, I was scared
witless and would have
stayed hidden in my
room had Peju not come
to tell me that my mum
was about to do it
herself. And then she
added that she was
scared like I was, which is
why she came in my
room.
I was angry. Here I was
with my ‘dream girl’, and
she believed me a
coward! I had to redeem
myself, so – jumping up
and speaking in what I
thought was a Barry
White baritone, but was
actually a teenage
squeak, I asked why
mother would bother
herself when I was in the
house. As I walked
towards the kitchen, Peju
ran after me and held my
hand. I was in heaven.
When I got there, my
mum was about to do
the deed and I drew back,
hoping it would be done
before she noticed me. I
had forgotten that Peju
was with me.
“Seun is here, mummy.
He’s here to kill the
chicken,” she said. All the
love I had for her
evaporated that instant
and I snatched my hand
from hers, hating her. I
walked on leaden feet
towards the sink where
Mum was, also hating her
for forgetting how young
I was.
“I’m your baby!” I tried to
scream at her
telepathically. But she did
not hear me. A small
smile played around her
lips as she handed me the
knife. My hand was
shaking so bad that I
nearly dropped it, but I
gripped it hard and
climbed on the stool
Mum had placed against
the sink for me to stand
on.
The chicken was bigger
than I remembered.
Suddenly its eyes and
beak looked really big,
reminiscent of the ones I
saw on the pterodactyls
in the movie Jurassic
Park. It looked ready to
pluck my eyes out! I was
afraid, and only the
thought that Peju was
behind me stopped me
from running away.
I gripped the chicken’s
head as I had seen my
brothers do countless
times and started sawing
the knife back and forth
around the neck area,
standing in such a way
that my body blocked
Peju’s view of what I was
doing. Within moments I
had the chicken’s throat
open to the bone and it
had stopped struggling.
It’s blood spurted
sluggishly. I grabbed it
and, moving quickly,
dunked it in the pot of
boiling water next to me.
I dimly recall my mom
shouting ‘duro!,” which is
‘wait’ in Yoruba, but it
was drowned out by a
loud ‘SQUAARKKK!!’ as the
chicken, which was only
half-dead reacted
violently, spraying
everyone in the kitchen
with boiling water. As I
was standing in front of
the pot, I got the worst of
it. I don’t remember what
happened clearly but
Mum says I screamed,
hurled the knife one way
and myself the other. All I
remember is that I did
not enter the kitchen
again that year.
Somehow Mum caught
me and applied honey on
the burns on my arms
and chest area, clucking
and shaking her head.
Fortunately the spray had
only lightly touched her
and Peju. I was so
ashamed.
When it was time to eat, I
stared at my piece of
chicken, half-expecting it
to jump off of the plate
and attack me. And Peju?
She just held my hand
through dinner, feeling
sorry for me and making
me hate myself more. But
she never told a soul;
which is partly why I
carried a torch for her for
a long time.
When my brothers came
back and heard the story,
they laughed and
laughed, and then they
christened me ‘Mr. Hot
Chicken’. For the first few
months the name
annoyed me, but after a
while either I outgrew
the offense or they
moved on, I don’t
remember.
Peju is married now but I
still run into her every
now and then when I
visit, and she always
winks, smiles and
whispers to me, “Mr. Hot
Chicken”.
