With the ‘shortest and sweetest’ month of the year (December) gone, the stark reality of the ’60-day’ month of January is here with us. On my mind is my cousin Imbwanga, aka ‘Okusimba Okunyanyi’. He was our village champion, the man whose palm was like a gravel road, rough and tough from years of hard work. It could probably sand down a piece of wood with just a handshake!
My forefathers must be doing summersaults in their graves watching the sacrilegious chaos of the present-day chicken eating. Today, people order whatever part of the chicken they want – breast for breakfast, wings for dinner, drumsticks just because – and no one bats an eye! Its total chicken anarchy!
In my childhood village, ingokho or chicken if you like is not just a delicacy, its serious business. In fact, your importance as a visitor isn’t measured by words but by the presence – or absence – of chicken on your plate. If there’s no chicken, well, let’s just say you might want to reflect on your life choices.
Every part of ingokho except for the feathers is considered edible — from feet, intestines, you name it. Nothing goes to waste – even the chicken’s thoughts might end up on a plate if we could cook them. And there is protocol. Don’t even think about freelancing with the imondo or gizzard! That’s sacred territory reserved strictly for the Man of the House, and in his absence, the eldest male inherits it, like some kind of poultry monarchy. Imondo isn’t just food; it is a symbol of power. Eating chicken is a ritual, a hierarchy, and a lesson in knowing your place. Modern chicken-eating feels like breaking all the rules!
I was reminded of the hierarchy one fateful evening. With my father away, I did the math and crowned myself the rightful heir to the sacred gizzard. With all the confidence of a self-appointed king, I claimed it and savored my victory. Enter Imbwanga, my older cousin, who I conveniently forgot outranked me. Let’s just say Imbwanga didn’t take kindly to my gizzard theft. “Omwana uno yakhaanza obwifi” he spat out while his palm quickly reminded me of my place in the hierarchy. That day, I learned two things: respect tradition and never underestimate the power of a well-delivered slap.
Bashianje, Imbwanga gave me a five-finger introduction to his palm. Bwana, his hand had a strong opinion, and my face was the notepad. When his palm met my face, it didn’t just slap-it etched history. The imprint it left behind looked like the tire tracks of a caterpillar road truck had rolled across my cheek. For a moment, I thought I’d need a construction permit to fix the damage!
Nilipigwa kofi ya uso nikasikia ni kama nimeanza kunona!
