More funny stories from my plot: For more than a week, a healthy hen with light-brown feathers had been coming to the plot at 6pm and spending its night outside, under my window, next to my door, on top of a sack of charcoal. It would walk towards my house clucking softly and looking well-fed. No one had reported a missing hen. No one had come looking for it. No one in the plot cared about the hen. Everyone looked at it with disinterest as it walked to my sack of charcoal.
Then last evening, it dawned on me that it was God. It was God saying that He had heard my cries and was now wiping away my tears. It was God recognising that I had not eaten chicken in a very long time. God is faithful.
So I sprung up and lit a jiko and placed a sufuria of water on it.
“Akisema atakubariki, hakuna atakaye zuia…(When He says He will bless you, no one can stop it)” I sang, while I sharpened two knives.
I was feeling blessed. Surely, good things come to those who wait. I beamed. I marveled. I read a New Testament scripture. I contemplated accepting Jesus Christ as my personal Lord and saviour. He had done it for me. He had saved me from the pangs of hunger and put me right in the middle of a meal of chicken.
I’d first boil it and get 2 cups of soup, I thought. Then I’d make a nice stew for eating with ugali. So I waited for the hen to come home. O, how I would slaughter the hell out of it.
6pm came. The hen was prompt. It sauntered into the plot as if it owned the place, looking fat and delicious. I had already torn a carton, on which I’d slaughter the hen. I stood at my door, knife in hand, and waited for the hen to get to me. No need to chase it around. God would deliver it into my hands. The hen went straight to the sack of charcoal and made itself comfortable. I smiled. I went to it and took it by its wings. It was time.
But then, Satan showed up in the form of a woman, who rushed into the plot asking, “Where is that hen that just entered through this gate?!”
I looked at her. She saw me holding the hen in one hand and a knife in the other. She came to me.
“Ah, thank you so much for catching the hen for me,” she said.
For a moment, the world stopped as I tried to understand what was going on.
“I have been looking for this hen everywhere! I lost it one week ago.”
“Which hen?”I asked.
She pointed at the hen in my hand.
“This one,” she said.
“This one?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“This chicken?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I lost it a week ago. It’s mine,” the woman explained.
“What?”
“The chicken.”
“Which one?”
“This one.”
“This one?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Have you looked in the other plot?”
“THIS is my chicken. Give it to me.”
I didn’t want to let it go. I could feel my heart breaking. She then looked at the knife in my hand, looked at the sufuria of boiling water, looked at the torn carton spread at my feet and asked if I was planning to slaughter her chicken.
“What? No way. That’s ridiculous! I can never slaughter a hen that’s not mine,” I lied.
She then stretched her arm to receive her chicken, my supper.
“Vumilia, roho yangu, majaribu ni kama moto…” I sang, while I used the hot water meant to defeather the chicken to bathe.
The woman just came back to ask if I have seen the chicken. It got lost again. She cannot find it.
The Lord is fighting my battles. The wicked shall not find rest.
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