When I was
younger we used to have chickens in our yard (like most Zimbabweans at one
point in their lives). They weren’t the pretty white expensive Broilers that
would make the yard look organized and economical. Oh no, they were those
kumusha type, few feathers missing, road runner chickens; and they were as
anxious as they were unattractive. They were constantly on edge and would be
scared of almost anything. They would run at the sight of even the slightest
disturbance and blurt out loud clucks as they did. For their security we would
place them in one room at night. But that was no comfort to them. The slightest
sound, even the sound of a branch landing on the roof would send them into a
panic and like an orchestra the entire flock would erupt into exclamations of
desperate pleas for help.
What was worse was we had dogs, and for a few days we had to drill it into them that the chickens were not food. The chickens could not have cared less about our scolding and instructions. They were horrified every time Rex and Tiger ran about.
When they would make their noise from whatever trivial thing would frighten them, my mother would ask me to go check on them and see what was going on. As you can imagine this quickly became unpleasant and frustrating and after many nights of waking up and finding nothing there I eventually confronted my mother with this question
“why are they so scared all the time!?”
My mother, who is always kind and thoughtful with her answers to my questions, smiled at me and said,
“That’s what chickens do. Chickens will be chickens””
What was worse was we had dogs, and for a few days we had to drill it into them that the chickens were not food. The chickens could not have cared less about our scolding and instructions. They were horrified every time Rex and Tiger ran about.
When they would make their noise from whatever trivial thing would frighten them, my mother would ask me to go check on them and see what was going on. As you can imagine this quickly became unpleasant and frustrating and after many nights of waking up and finding nothing there I eventually confronted my mother with this question
“why are they so scared all the time!?”
My mother, who is always kind and thoughtful with her answers to my questions, smiled at me and said,
“That’s what chickens do. Chickens will be chickens””
Flash
forward a few months, and the chickens have become part of our regular scene at
home. My siblings and I (as children tend to do) began to find ourselves
attached to these chickens and ended up giving each one a name, petting them,
and treating them as if they were babies. We’d rush home from school and
scramble to grab some mealie meal and feed our little squad of pets. We’d add
grass to their nests, chase the dogs away if they got too close, and save the
chicks from whatever mess they would find themselves tangled in.
It was while we were doing all of this that I noticed something strange. The chickens began to act very differently. They would still panic here and there but they were far less noisy at night, far less cowardly at the sight of danger or disturbances. In fact they started to become brave! Chasing little children that came too close to their nests, sitting right in my lap as I ate my lunch, and walking on top of the napping dogs as they roamed their yard. The chickens became unreasonably brave, chasing maids and gardeners who entered their territory, climbing roofs, and eating food that was not for them.
This may have been funny and often times scary to observe, but when it came time for the chickens to be slaughtered (much to the children’s dismay) , the chickens were too confident to realize the man with a knife was here to kill them, and they would only run last minute. Baffled and annoyed at their failure to flee, I approached my gardener and asked him,
“why do these chickens not run!?”
He laughed and pointed at some roosters fighting and said back to me,
“that’s what chickens do. Chickens will be chickens”
It was while we were doing all of this that I noticed something strange. The chickens began to act very differently. They would still panic here and there but they were far less noisy at night, far less cowardly at the sight of danger or disturbances. In fact they started to become brave! Chasing little children that came too close to their nests, sitting right in my lap as I ate my lunch, and walking on top of the napping dogs as they roamed their yard. The chickens became unreasonably brave, chasing maids and gardeners who entered their territory, climbing roofs, and eating food that was not for them.
This may have been funny and often times scary to observe, but when it came time for the chickens to be slaughtered (much to the children’s dismay) , the chickens were too confident to realize the man with a knife was here to kill them, and they would only run last minute. Baffled and annoyed at their failure to flee, I approached my gardener and asked him,
“why do these chickens not run!?”
He laughed and pointed at some roosters fighting and said back to me,
“that’s what chickens do. Chickens will be chickens”
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Chickens
are both symbols of cowardice and fearless pride. What determines which
characteristic we see, tends to depend on what the chicken’s environment
promotes.
I wonder
what it means when we think of boys being boys as an inescapable truth that
only applies to their weakness.
I wonder if like the chickens we assume their behavior is justified and permanent.
I wonder where the line is drawn as absurd or nature. Like the chickens and the dogs versus the chickens and the branch on the roof; a cat-call versus writing an inappropriate comment on their photos or posts.
Boys will
be… what we allow them to be.
- Tuesday, August 30, 2016
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