Chicken Run
John Ndavula
John Ndavula
Ekaya sighs and sinks into his drowsiness. He hears faint footsteps receding in the distance, and dogs yapping. A confrontational growl ensues. The thieves are stealing my chickens. He pushes the blanket aside and wipes the side of his mouth with his hand plastering the wetness on his calves.
He sits on the bed and reaches for the torch on top of an old carton box. It isn’t there. It must have dropped and rolled on the floor. He gets down on all fours and feels as far as he can beneath the bed. Nothing. As he rises he feels something hard between his feet. The torch. Damn the rats. “The day I shall lay my hands on one,” he hisses. He flashes the torch and the light momentarily blinds the rat. Then, with the rungu, bashes its head to a pulp.
The door creaks as he steps into the cold. He leaves the door ajar in case he needs to hurry back. Once outside, Tiger and Simba, come to him panting. They stop to sniff and lick his tennis shoes and then speed off towards the chicken run, growling and barking. Trembling, he goes back to the hut and fetches his rungu. He passes by his brother’s hut on his way out and finds the door ajar. Chegenye has gone ahead of me.
He walks on the overgrown grass in the compound and the dew makes his feet wet through his torn shoes. There is an icy feeling between his toes. He goes to the chicken run and peeps between the spaces in the timber wall and sees outlines of dozing chickens. He counts them, as he always does, but the space is too narrow to see the entire brood. He goes to the door, reaches out to open it, but hears a rustle in the maize field. I will count the chickens later.
He walks stealthily to the edge of the maize farm and stops to listen. He hears footsteps in between the howl of the dogs ahead. Chegenye must be on their trail. The maize farm is a perfect getaway for thieves who had doubled in number after the post-election violence. He heard that some hid in the maize plantations until the last lantern had been extinguished before attacking. He can’t afford to lose a single chicken. Tomorrow he is going to sell them in Kipkaren and pay his way back into college.
Ekaya runs into the farm parting the maize with his rungu. His feet swish in the long grass, and he mows black jacks and other weeds with his tennis shoes. He hurries down the slope; it feels like running down a blind tunnel. He hears a sound behind him and stops. He bites his tongue to keep his teeth from chattering. His hands stiffen in the cold.
He cocks his head but is greeted by silence. Then comes a whooshing and whizzing. The spirits are doing their midnight rounds in the farm. The sound comes closer; he feels the wind on his skin. He trembles and wets himself. The leaves of the maize plants dip and brush in the passing wind.
He sits down in the slope exhausted. His chest rises and falls violently; his teeth now chatter unfettered. He remembers sitting here a few years ago cowering when the attackers struck their village. Everyone ran to hide in the forest with the few possessions they could gather. He saw women carrying bulging lessos on their heads. Some dangled pots on their heads and lessos in their hands, their children strapped on their backs. Older children carried sufurias, cooking sticks, and other odd kitchen ware while men pushed bicycles full of their belongings. Ekaya carried the transistor radio and blankets while Chegenye carried the pot with the umuduya stew.
He remembers Father finding them in the valley and ordering them back to the house. As they got near the house, the smell of smoke overpowered them. It was then that he saw huge flames leaping skywards. His mother’s screams rang in the cold night and helped the attackers find them. They surrounded them, their spears shining in the fire lit night. Their voices taunted them, calling them weeds as they chanted support for their party. Ekaya turned to his father wanting him to do something but he stood there with hands to his head.
Ekaya sees an image of his father, his hands to his head, in front of him and he grabs his rungu and lurches at the imaginary attackers, bashing them one after the other. They fall down as he pounds them. He fights valiantly before something hits his leg; he stumbles and falls on his knees. Maize stalks are flattened behind him. Burning heat courses through his torso; he is thirsty for water. Each heartbeat is a set of needles puncturing his rib cage. He is drenched in sweat. He removes his sweater and gasps from the motion as pain tears through his arms. He is tired and wants to lie down on the weeds but the smell of trampled blackjacks overwhelm him. His chest heaves violently and he throws up.
He hears dogs barking at the edge of the forest. He begins to flash his torch in a zig zag motion to announce his presence to the intruders. The thieves ought to know that he is watchful and doesn’t fear them. He holds his rungu tightly, but his hand shakes.
“Chegenye,” he calls out. There is an echo. “Tiger. Simba.” There are no dogs. It is dangerous to be this far into the farm alone. He remembers his chicken and walks back to the compound. It is no longer the beautiful compound he lived in as a child. The grotesque remains of their brick house appear in the faint moonlight that has begun to show. Further on the unmarked graves lie. Still further, the silhouettes of grass-thatched huts that Action Aid built for them after peace was restored.
Ekaya peeps through the cracks of the chicken run and sees outlines of hens resting as before. He goes to the front side so that he can count the chickens. He finds the door ajar. Did he forget to close the door that evening when he last counted the chickens? Is it possible? He pushes it open and begins to count in the dim moonlight. “One, two, three.” He cannot see clearly and flashes his torch. He comes face-to-face with a man pressing himself against the back wall. He is wearing a torn kabuti and his eyes are bloodshot. A hen jumps from the patch, beats its wings and the smell of saw dust fills the room. The torch in Ekaya’s hand begins to shake. Should I scream? What if he has a knife? Ekaya clutches his rungu tightly. I will bash him into pulp. The man steps forward.
“Mwizi!” Ekaya shouts. He cannot recognize his own voice, it sounds like a baby’s whisper.
The man lurches forward holding a weapon. He is aiming at the torch. Ekaya throws the torch to his left and bashes him with his rungu. He misses and falls on the earthen floor. The man stumbles and falls besides him. They both breathe hard as they stare at each other. They both struggle to get back on their feet. The thief is the first to stand, weapon in hand.
“Please don’t kill me,” Ekaya says as he curls himself ready for the knife.
“What are you doing Ekaya. Get hold of yourself. It is me Chegenye.”
“Thieves. They are attacking us.”
“There are no thieves. It is me Chegenye.”
Ekaya begins to sob as he grasps Chegenye’s arm.
“It is alright. No one is attacking us.”
“They were here.”
“I must find you a doctor,” Chegenye says. “I will sell the chicken and use the money to find a good doctor.”
“Leave my chicken alone. They are for my fees.” Ekaya says and begins to sob and choke as the wind outside howls like many voices in the now moonless night.
He sits on the bed and reaches for the torch on top of an old carton box. It isn’t there. It must have dropped and rolled on the floor. He gets down on all fours and feels as far as he can beneath the bed. Nothing. As he rises he feels something hard between his feet. The torch. Damn the rats. “The day I shall lay my hands on one,” he hisses. He flashes the torch and the light momentarily blinds the rat. Then, with the rungu, bashes its head to a pulp.
The door creaks as he steps into the cold. He leaves the door ajar in case he needs to hurry back. Once outside, Tiger and Simba, come to him panting. They stop to sniff and lick his tennis shoes and then speed off towards the chicken run, growling and barking. Trembling, he goes back to the hut and fetches his rungu. He passes by his brother’s hut on his way out and finds the door ajar. Chegenye has gone ahead of me.
He walks on the overgrown grass in the compound and the dew makes his feet wet through his torn shoes. There is an icy feeling between his toes. He goes to the chicken run and peeps between the spaces in the timber wall and sees outlines of dozing chickens. He counts them, as he always does, but the space is too narrow to see the entire brood. He goes to the door, reaches out to open it, but hears a rustle in the maize field. I will count the chickens later.
He walks stealthily to the edge of the maize farm and stops to listen. He hears footsteps in between the howl of the dogs ahead. Chegenye must be on their trail. The maize farm is a perfect getaway for thieves who had doubled in number after the post-election violence. He heard that some hid in the maize plantations until the last lantern had been extinguished before attacking. He can’t afford to lose a single chicken. Tomorrow he is going to sell them in Kipkaren and pay his way back into college.
Ekaya runs into the farm parting the maize with his rungu. His feet swish in the long grass, and he mows black jacks and other weeds with his tennis shoes. He hurries down the slope; it feels like running down a blind tunnel. He hears a sound behind him and stops. He bites his tongue to keep his teeth from chattering. His hands stiffen in the cold.
He cocks his head but is greeted by silence. Then comes a whooshing and whizzing. The spirits are doing their midnight rounds in the farm. The sound comes closer; he feels the wind on his skin. He trembles and wets himself. The leaves of the maize plants dip and brush in the passing wind.
He sits down in the slope exhausted. His chest rises and falls violently; his teeth now chatter unfettered. He remembers sitting here a few years ago cowering when the attackers struck their village. Everyone ran to hide in the forest with the few possessions they could gather. He saw women carrying bulging lessos on their heads. Some dangled pots on their heads and lessos in their hands, their children strapped on their backs. Older children carried sufurias, cooking sticks, and other odd kitchen ware while men pushed bicycles full of their belongings. Ekaya carried the transistor radio and blankets while Chegenye carried the pot with the umuduya stew.
He remembers Father finding them in the valley and ordering them back to the house. As they got near the house, the smell of smoke overpowered them. It was then that he saw huge flames leaping skywards. His mother’s screams rang in the cold night and helped the attackers find them. They surrounded them, their spears shining in the fire lit night. Their voices taunted them, calling them weeds as they chanted support for their party. Ekaya turned to his father wanting him to do something but he stood there with hands to his head.
Ekaya sees an image of his father, his hands to his head, in front of him and he grabs his rungu and lurches at the imaginary attackers, bashing them one after the other. They fall down as he pounds them. He fights valiantly before something hits his leg; he stumbles and falls on his knees. Maize stalks are flattened behind him. Burning heat courses through his torso; he is thirsty for water. Each heartbeat is a set of needles puncturing his rib cage. He is drenched in sweat. He removes his sweater and gasps from the motion as pain tears through his arms. He is tired and wants to lie down on the weeds but the smell of trampled blackjacks overwhelm him. His chest heaves violently and he throws up.
He hears dogs barking at the edge of the forest. He begins to flash his torch in a zig zag motion to announce his presence to the intruders. The thieves ought to know that he is watchful and doesn’t fear them. He holds his rungu tightly, but his hand shakes.
“Chegenye,” he calls out. There is an echo. “Tiger. Simba.” There are no dogs. It is dangerous to be this far into the farm alone. He remembers his chicken and walks back to the compound. It is no longer the beautiful compound he lived in as a child. The grotesque remains of their brick house appear in the faint moonlight that has begun to show. Further on the unmarked graves lie. Still further, the silhouettes of grass-thatched huts that Action Aid built for them after peace was restored.
Ekaya peeps through the cracks of the chicken run and sees outlines of hens resting as before. He goes to the front side so that he can count the chickens. He finds the door ajar. Did he forget to close the door that evening when he last counted the chickens? Is it possible? He pushes it open and begins to count in the dim moonlight. “One, two, three.” He cannot see clearly and flashes his torch. He comes face-to-face with a man pressing himself against the back wall. He is wearing a torn kabuti and his eyes are bloodshot. A hen jumps from the patch, beats its wings and the smell of saw dust fills the room. The torch in Ekaya’s hand begins to shake. Should I scream? What if he has a knife? Ekaya clutches his rungu tightly. I will bash him into pulp. The man steps forward.
“Mwizi!” Ekaya shouts. He cannot recognize his own voice, it sounds like a baby’s whisper.
The man lurches forward holding a weapon. He is aiming at the torch. Ekaya throws the torch to his left and bashes him with his rungu. He misses and falls on the earthen floor. The man stumbles and falls besides him. They both breathe hard as they stare at each other. They both struggle to get back on their feet. The thief is the first to stand, weapon in hand.
“Please don’t kill me,” Ekaya says as he curls himself ready for the knife.
“What are you doing Ekaya. Get hold of yourself. It is me Chegenye.”
“Thieves. They are attacking us.”
“There are no thieves. It is me Chegenye.”
Ekaya begins to sob as he grasps Chegenye’s arm.
“It is alright. No one is attacking us.”
“They were here.”
“I must find you a doctor,” Chegenye says. “I will sell the chicken and use the money to find a good doctor.”
“Leave my chicken alone. They are for my fees.” Ekaya says and begins to sob and choke as the wind outside howls like many voices in the now moonless night.
John Ndavula is a fiction writer as well as a screen writer. He has published, researched and taught communications and literature in universities in Kenya.