The early morning cock crow chases my dream away. It announces the dawn of a new day and makes me struggle with my bed. I walk fussily to the toilet to empty my urine-filled bladder and relieve myself of the pressure in my waistline. Grandpa’s rhythmic snore echoes from the next room and adds to the pleasure I feel as I urinate.

I spend the next hour doing domestic chores; those reserved for children. For every chore I attempt, Mum’s voice resonates a thousand times in my head —

“The plates are not properly arranged in the rack,” she would say.

“The house is not well swept, I can see dirt around,” she would complain.

She virtually complained over everything. She is the chief complainer of the family. I’m glad to be home away from home, enjoying my holiday with Grandpa. At least, for everything but his lies. I cherish the fact that he doesn’t take count of the pieces of chicken in the soup. And even if he does, he has never complained to me that a piece of chicken is missing. Perhaps, he thinks I’m in tune with his lie: that chicken is an adult meal.
Grandpa walks sluggishly into the kitchen.

“You are very hard working,” he says as he tries hard to stifle a yawn.

“Thank you Sir,” I reply as I’m lost by the looks on his face.

It is as though he is sleep-walking. His eyes barely open. His fat lips, too heavy for his jaw to hold. A long white patch marks his face from the left side of his mouth, almost reaching his ear; the evidence of spilled saliva from his mouth.

I have always wondered where Mum got her looks from till now. You can’t tell when she is frowning or smiling. You don’t want to see her in the morning. Her ugly face can make a crying baby convulse. If she competed for the ugliest woman in the universe, she would be crowned the indisputable queen. I always make concerted efforts to avoid looking at her face in the morning. I do it to avoid having a bad day. Notwithstanding, Grandpa is twice as ugly as Mum.

Without noticing, Grandpa walks away from the kitchen, relieving me of the horrors that run in my head. The resonating sounds from his footsteps gradually fade off, causing me to silently drift back to consciousness. I put my hands back to work in consonance with my mind, ignoring every possible distraction that comes my way.

I walk out of the door and feel my soul lighten up by rays of light from the early morning sun. Chickens flock about, scrambling for crumbs of food from one compound to another. The butterflies are busy with the nectar from the flowers. The birds chirp as they perch from one tree to another. It’s a bright and charming day.

A chicken is strapped to the railings. It’s dark and grey feathers with white spots and malnourished-looks makes it distinct from the other chickens that move around freely. A piece of cloth is fastened to its wing by the owner, to identify it.

“Why would somebody be so cruel?” I ask myself as I approach it and attempt to set it free.

“What are you doing there?” Grandpa asks, pointing his walking stick towards me.

“Time after time I have told you that a chicken is an adult meal,” he continues.

I step back, frozen with fear as though he had used a magic wand on me. We look at each other—eye to eye—as he rants and raves till he stares me down. I bend my head down, focusing my eyes on my toes. My mouth closed, my ears wide open — even though I’m not listening to what he’s saying. I wait patiently as he concludes and walks my way through the staircase, into the house.

“Well?” Grandpa clears his throat, “When will you get the chicken?”

“Which chicken?” I ask.

“The one I asked you to buy.”

“Oh! I remember.”

“It’s almost noon.”

“Yes. I will dress up.”

“Be quick about it.”

“Okay Sir.”

I didn’t hear him say anything about buying chicken from the market, perhaps, because I didn’t pay attention when he was talking to me earlier on. I wonder why a child is sent on an errand to buy chicken, but is forbidden to eat it.

“Will you come with me?” I ask Otse.

“To where?”

“The market, to get chicken.”

“Chicken?”

“Yes, for Grandpa.”

“Oh! I see.”

“So, are you coming with?”

“Yes, let’s go,” she says, even before I conclude my statement.

***

Tell us what you think: Do you believe some foods are not meant to be eaten by children? Which foods?