Today I killed a single mother and her children in broad daylight. Okay, let me be quick to say that this single mother happened to be a little white hen. I am still not sure whether I really killed the chicks as well but that is what I was told.
In rural Ghana, a "big shot" is expected to take responsibility in ways that one can only begin to imagine. For this reason, some minutes of the morning had to be spent on protecting my image so as not to become known as "the South African (or is it Jamaican) madam who lives in Sierra Leone House, speaks Mfantsi better than us anyway, and treats the small fry with disregard." Please do not think this far-fetched for the people would indeed have arrived at this conclusion. This is what happens in areas where there are many unemployed people with a lot of time on their hands to sit under trees and guess other residents' nationalities based on their hairstyles.
I was doing the 1.5-minute downhill drive when this family of birds decided to cross the road (why, again, did the chicken cross the road?). I tried to slow down to avoid any casualties but the result was a spray of feathers akin to that which occasionally results from pillow fights. My first instinct was to continue driving because that's what I would do elsewhere. However, I found myself slowing down, all the time observing, through the rearview mirror, the dancing hen and the pedestrians who had stopped in their tracks to observe the bloody scene.
I put the car in reverse, got back to the accident spot, stepped out, and asked the first person who looked like a stakeholder, "Me kaw ahi (How much do I owe you)?"
"Wo kaw dze bebree o. Ɔnye ne mba nyinara na anyam hɔn no o. (Your debt is huge. You just crushed the hen and all its offspring.)"
"Ntsi me kaw ahi (So how much do I owe you)?"
Just then, a passerby asked whose birds they were, and my recently acquired creditor mentioned another name. The lady had recently had a baby and was at another location in the village. It was then that said creditor decided to recall that the owner's husband was nearby and could be consulted. All this while, the hen, with its broken neck, was bleeding and rolling back home. I am still wondering whether it was by chance that, as it was dying, the hen "retraced its steps."
For the next three minutes I waited as someone was sent to bring Mr. Husband-of-owner-of-dying-hen. During this period, another passerby suggested that they quickly drain the blood out of the hen and make it suitable for consumption.
I still don't know if the husband was found but when the emmisary returned, I was politley asked to go and carry on with the day's business. Just to be sure, I asked whether the husband was not at home. The response was the same so I got in the car and drove off, thankful that a war had not erupted.
I strongly believe that later that evening, supper was extra special.
