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For weeks, I had begged my mum to
let her healthy, well-fed white cockerel
fulfill its destiny in our stomachs.
She refused, saying, “Let’s give it a
few more weeks,” before adding,
”Patience is a fruit of the Holy Spirit, be patient!”
Two days ago, it flew
over the fence and is yet to return
to the warmth of its coop.
At two years and seven months, I
chased a neighbour’s dog and Uncle Inno
called me a fearless little champ.
Today, at twenty years and seven months old,
I am suddenly fearful and quiet.
Something tells me that the cockerel is steaming in
the pot of a thief enjoying his ninety-ninth day.
I’m afraid that “something” is right.
Tomorrow, I’ll hear a passing mob
of drumming children
singing about a shameless thief.
I’ll look over the fence and see that they
have in front of them a crying, begging,
half-naked Broda Abu.
And in his hand, a big black hen!
