“Seun,” my mum called. “Come and
throw this dirt into the bin for me.”
I ran to the kitchen, hoping to
get back fast to the cartoon I was watching on television. I collected the dirt
in the basket and raced outside our unfenced house. When I got to where our
central waste bin was, what I saw almost made me scream. I saw a Mother hen feasting with her newly
hatched chicks. Believe me, I had a phobia for cocks and hens generally, and
that fear was aggravated with the abhorred sight of the hen and its chicks. I
retraced my steps and thought of what to do. The cartoon was ongoing, I had to
dispose the dirt, but the hen was ready to attack me if I dare neared it, believing
that I wanted to hurt its chick.
Pensive, an idea popped up in my
mind, I picked up a stone, to scare it away, but instead it ferociously
cackled, opened its wings in an attempt to attack me. I was so scared that I
shed a little urine in my pants. Just then, I summoned a bit of courage, stood
back and hurled the stone at it, not to harm it but to scare it away. Alas! The
unexpected happened; it hit one of its chicks and it wriggled, wriggled and
wriggled before heeding death’s clarion call. I had killed a chick not ours.
Even the cartoon I wanted to get back to, had escaped my mind. Just then, a
mischievous thought crossed my mind and I immediately carried it out by
disposing the chick together with the dirt. I ran back inside feeling safe and
smart.
“Seun,” I heard my mum call from
the kitchen.
The tone and pitch of her voice
sent cold shivers down my spines. “Did she know?” I asked my bemused self. I
tried feigning ignorance which she rebuffed with her probing questions.
“Why did you kill it?” She asked
angrily.
I began to stutter, knowing the
unknown that would follow. Suddenly, she
leaped to get hold of me, but like a spring, I sprang backwards and ran out of
the house. She ordered me to come into the house, but I knew she was going to
deal with me, so I defied her. From noon, I stayed out and refused to go in
till around 10pm. By that time, the worms in my stomach clamoured for food.
Coincidentally, my dad showed up.
My heart skipped a bit as I beheld him. Anything could happen. I ran to meet
him, greeted him, collected his bag and was happy with his response. He was,
however, surprised I was still outside by that time. I quickened my steps as I
walked into the house, dropped his bag, and ran back outside. He went in while I
remained outside with my ear glued to the door. He was served his meal. As his
spoon clattered against the plate to scoop the last grains of rice, my tummy
was angered by hunger.
Few minutes later, I heard my mum
speak; she narrated what I did earlier that day. But to my utmost surprise, dad
said nothing. Suddenly, my dad’s baritone voice called me in. It was a magnetic call; I responded without
thinking twice. He asked me to explain how the incident took place. I did so sounding
remorseful. Surprisingly, he did nothing. With a joyful heart, I ate and went
to bed. My dad, known to be a military soul in a civilian body, had pardoned my
pardonable flaws.
Around 1:00am, I was awoken by a
painful lash on my back. I sprang to my feet to behold my dad’s domineering
figure. His eyes literally had hell in them.
In his hands was the dreaded horse whip. At that point, I knew mercy had
taken a sabbatical leave. He beat me
blue-black; my skin wasn’t much different from a litmus paper – the whip was acidic.
I cried for help, but all the doors and windows were locked – a US maximum
security prison; an escape was impossible.
After being flogged for about 45
minutes, he stopped, picked up the key to the door and said in Yoruba, 'o ya,
niso nile mama to pa adiye won' which
meant now, move on to the house of the owner
of the chicken you killed. He continued flogging me while I ran across the
field opposite our house. The owner of the chicken who was popularly known as Iya ijo headed a celestial church. When
we got there, I banged the door as hard and long as I could in the midst of
which I was still getting whipped by my dad. Shortly after, the woman, bemused,
came out and opened the door. I rushed in to hide behind her. In astonishment,
she asked what my crimes were. I explained myself exhaustingly, amidst tears,
with mucus dripping from my nose.
Shocked, she asked my dad why he beat
me to that extent for killing a chick she didn't even know was missing. He then
replied saying, “mummy, nkan elemi ni adiye yen na” meaning mummy, the chicken is a living thing too.
She begged him not to flog me anymore, and with that, he asked me to prostrate
and apologize to her. She refused, but my dad insisted and without thinking
twice I rivaled the sand on the floor. She then told my dad that there was no
problem, he could go and I would follow; an attempt to prevent him from
flogging me on our way back. He left while she comforted me. In a staggering
manner, exhausted state and dejected mind, I went back home.
When I got home, he had gone to
bed but my mom was still awake. The most
painful part of that night was that, my mum who reported me to him felt so
sorry for me. She offered me Paracetamol to ease the pain – it failed
momentarily. Since that day, any time I saw chickens I ran far away from them.
The chick's demise created a dreadful memory that triggered my rebirth – a
sense of care and respect for things, animate or inanimate.
Biography
Makinde Oluwadamilola Peter, a first year student of
communication and Language Arts, University of Ibadan, takes delight in writing,
singing and reading.
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