This is a true narrative from my childhood journal.

Flora

She was this little, chubby girl that barely had a turn to be a last born like everyone else in the family who had 2 or more years of being the baby of the family.  She was soft spoken except when she needed to eat or drink something and she got cranky even though she was an independent child. This child was smart enough to know when mum was busy attending to the baby and she would sneak out of the house.  She was as slippery as an eel and fast as a cheetah.

The Chicken

The chicken was the envy of the village. It laid 2 eggs in a day. Everyday at midday its owner got to enjoy eggs in his quarters which were within the farm. We got to know what time it was by the smell of fried eggs from the quarters. My childhood mind thought the chicken was older than me.

Batista

He stood at 10 feet according to my childhood eyes. He was gigantic and strong. He had biceps, triceps, and quadriceps. He had a skin that was dark brown and smooth. His glow was unique, and his bright eyes shone in the dark. He wore bell bottoms and flowery shirts, perhaps bright colored. He was a trendy guy. From the strong smell of lifebuoy whenever he walked around you could tell that he applied soap on his skin in place of oil or lotion. Never mind, that was the norm those days as oil and lotion were a luxury.  Batista had a deep thunderous voice and a French accent when he spoke in Kiswahili. He sounded like Koffi Olomide (Papa Fololo). He had an afro thick as a forest. He had fled Burundi during a civil war. He worked in the farm as a tea picker. Batista was a joyful person. He owned the 2 eggs a day layer chicken.

The Story

It was on a Sunday afternoon and Batista’s day off in the farm. As usual, Flora and I were playing around the farm when all of a sudden, I went back to the house to take a rest. My mum was busy doing the house chores when she realized Flora had disappeared for nearly 3 hours. “Flora! Flora!”, mum called out. “Eku Flora?” She asked me. I shrugged my shoulders. My mum worriedly walked out of the house hastily to look for Flora and I followed her. This time the baby was enjoying his afternoon nap. From a distance, we saw Flora our little chubby girl playfully hopping towards the homestead as Batista held her hand. Batista had slaughtered the chicken and invited Flora to the feast when he saw her loitering around the farm. She seemed excited and talked about how she drunk chicken soup and ate meat. Her little tummy was protruding and her face jovial and oily as if she had been soaked in chicken fat. Mum was relieved but at the same time the cane was waiting for Flora. There was a rule in the family that, “thou shall not eat food from strangers.” I don’t remember if she was caned or not because I was only 5 years old. What could a 5 years old comprehend if she thought Batista was 10 feet tall? Anyway, life is a journal!