Short Story -- What Chickens Do
By A. A. Rufai, Jos
The cock tuned an excited cock-a-doodle-doo, “Qoock...qock...qooockooook.” Then he said, “Niima, Niima my dame.” He called the name so romantically, as Romeo would have called his angel, Juliet.
“I swear it will only be a quickie,” the cock was saying passionately. He tilted his head to one side. His eyes blinked with desire while he was looking down at the hen, giving her the sexy look.
“Come on, Niima. Please?” His face lit with a chicken’s smile.
In what sounded like a dismissive chuckle, Niima the hen hurriedly began.
“Kwoaakwoaak woaaa... over my dead body!” Spitting venom of feminist antagonism, the hen threw her legs ahead of her. She did so gracefully, a precautionary move to further herself away from the cock.
True, the hen was in her bloom of youth. Going by chicken standards, she could have passed for a beauty queen. She had a small reddish crest. Her plume all over were feathered pure white. The smooth touches of ashes on them, which she had played in, made her even more attractive to any cock with an active libido. One would have thought she had carefully applied white powder on the feathers after taking her bath to catch the evening stroll. But now this cock would not let her be.
When the hen legged to a distance she considered safe, she added, “Go and have the quickie with your mother!”
The cock was momentarily struck dumb. His friendly disposition promptly evaporated. Apparently, he considered Niima’s response an unprovoked affront. He least expected the unwelcoming reception.
He said when he found his voice, “Because I have always been gentle with you? Y-o-o-u...y-0-0-u... you idiot!” he stammered out of heightening annoyance. “You think you’re beautiful?” the cock’s plumage were now visibly quivering like the blowing leaves of an avocado tree.
“Wait...” the cock said tottering forward towards the hen, “I’am going to teach you a lesson today.” And that was how the chicken race began.
Niima the hen ran as if it was judgment day. She went round in circles, sprinting, dodging, jumping and desperately flapping her wings in an attempt to even fly. “Help!!! Help!!! Help!!!” she cackled.
The cock followed with jetting speed. He pursued her like a professional athlete. There was no denying he was blessed with the instinct of a hunter. He dived in the air doing his super-cock cruise. His king-size frame formed a horizon over the fleeing hen. The shade he provided her was kind of cool, yet it possessed the traits of a looming darkness.
“KwaqKwaaqKwaaq...” clucked the hen in harsh disapproval when the cock bounced his entire bulkiness on top of her. Hard as she struggled, there was no escape. In the futile attempt to get up from underneath him, her shapely leg - nice fowl legs - got soiled with dirt.
It was with brute strength that the cock tried to steady the uncooperative hen. Her head was still twitching this way and that. The cock used his sharp beak to nail the tuft at the back of her head. That singular action put her to a hold.
“B-a-i-n-b-r-i-d-g-e!-!-!” thundered another cock.
The cock on top of Niima did not heed to the protest coming from behind. Having suffered to gain access to the hen’s honey pot, he was only to give her the solo thrust when he felt himself launched into space.
It was with the force of a charging racehorse that the protesting cock propelled Bainbridge using his head.
“Thank God for you, Ammar!” the hen panted as she was liberated from her captive. “This fool is trying to rape me,” she reported, taking refuge behind her emancipator.
Gravity pulled the rapist cock back to mother earth with the same force with which he was blasted off. He landed with a heavy thud on his right wing.
“You behave like a he-goat, Bainbridge!” raged Ammar the cock. “How many times will I tell you to keep away from my fiancee?” Ammar appeared set for a showdown. His wattle was hanging down from his throat like the long beard of a mujahedin. Given the way his feathers were roughly puffed up, it was easy to imagine he had concealed explosives in them, just as a suicide bomber would do.
Bainbridge felt so hurt. Not from physical pain. But from the pain of having been denied the opportunity to ravish Niima the hen. He was already on his feet gearing for a cock-fight. Spreading, were the quills that formed his tail, a glazed black that shines. The quills seemed to emit hot exhaust of gas; as if being discharged from a powerful turbojet of an American fighter plane.
Bainbridge the cock, a New Hampshire breed, was a direct descendant of chickens who originated from yankeedom. His proud yellowish skin, his chestnut red plumage, spoke volumes about the hereditary physique of his ancestry. He bounced like a prized boxer. His deep sawed-comb, lavish as it was, danced on his head like the crown of a mad emperor. His good feathering fiercely blew out, resembling a porcupine ready for war.
“Since the day the people who own you brought you to this village,” Ammar the cock was still venting, “all the pretty hens have had one complaint or the other to make about you.” He said stretching out his neck menacingly, eyeing Bainbridge with a stone face.
“Yes! He is fond of harassing us.” quickly chipped in the hen.
“It is unfortunate human beings don’t understand chicken talk.” Ammar continued. “If not, I would have had a small chat with your owners to have you slaughtered!”
Faafaafaafaa... sounded a violent flapping of wings. The cock combatants had leaped into the air. They were attacking each other in what proved to be a latest display of chicken kung fu.
“Deal with him, Ammar! Deal with him!” cackled Niima then in support of her hero.
A cloud of feathers burst in the issuing clash and was left dangling overhead by the time they landed. The feathers glided down in slow show upon them. Niima’s defender, Ammar the cock, was flat on the ground, motionless.
“Oh my God! Bainbridge, you have killed him.” cried the hen. She was shaking her head and weeping hysterically.
Bainbridge stood militantly over his opponent. He had used his giant leg, the left one, to strike the Mediteranean breed a deadly blow. A handsome chunk of white feather had been yanked off the Leghorn’s chest, leaving a deep wound. Perhaps, Ammar’s heart had stopped beating. No doubt his relations would be saddened to hear the news of his death.
But lo! In a twinkle of an eye, Ammar the cock sprang up and raced for his dear life. Bainbridge felt no mercy for his foe. He chased the enemy with all the energy of Chicken Feeds.
“Come back here you terrorist!” Bainbridge triumphantly crowed after Ammar.
The hen wailed, “Where are you going, Ammar? Stay and fight back like a cock!”
Ammar was already miles away. Bainbridge calculated he could not capture him for the time being. He made the sound of a rook, “Qwoooook... you can run but you can’t hide”! And so he negotiated for a U-turn. He checked his velocity with the skills of an evil genius. He was moving with astonishing speed, heading straight for Niima again.
“Please! Bainbridge, please!” Niima begged as she took flight.
“You chicken brain!” returned Bainbridge while catching up with her. “So I’m the one you call a fool? I’m sure going to teach you a lesson today.”
“My papa,” fondly called my grandmother. “Papa!” she persisted.
“Coming” I answered.
The chickens ran past me where I sat under a tree. They disappeared through the backyard of a group of mud huts that stood in my grandfather’s compound in Koton-Karfe, a small West African village.
A. A. Rufai is a university of Jos graduate of English based in Jos. E-mail: joscirle@yahoo.co.uk.
“I swear it will only be a quickie,” the cock was saying passionately. He tilted his head to one side. His eyes blinked with desire while he was looking down at the hen, giving her the sexy look.
“Come on, Niima. Please?” His face lit with a chicken’s smile.
In what sounded like a dismissive chuckle, Niima the hen hurriedly began.
“Kwoaakwoaak woaaa... over my dead body!” Spitting venom of feminist antagonism, the hen threw her legs ahead of her. She did so gracefully, a precautionary move to further herself away from the cock.
True, the hen was in her bloom of youth. Going by chicken standards, she could have passed for a beauty queen. She had a small reddish crest. Her plume all over were feathered pure white. The smooth touches of ashes on them, which she had played in, made her even more attractive to any cock with an active libido. One would have thought she had carefully applied white powder on the feathers after taking her bath to catch the evening stroll. But now this cock would not let her be.
When the hen legged to a distance she considered safe, she added, “Go and have the quickie with your mother!”
The cock was momentarily struck dumb. His friendly disposition promptly evaporated. Apparently, he considered Niima’s response an unprovoked affront. He least expected the unwelcoming reception.
He said when he found his voice, “Because I have always been gentle with you? Y-o-o-u...y-0-0-u... you idiot!” he stammered out of heightening annoyance. “You think you’re beautiful?” the cock’s plumage were now visibly quivering like the blowing leaves of an avocado tree.
“Wait...” the cock said tottering forward towards the hen, “I’am going to teach you a lesson today.” And that was how the chicken race began.
Niima the hen ran as if it was judgment day. She went round in circles, sprinting, dodging, jumping and desperately flapping her wings in an attempt to even fly. “Help!!! Help!!! Help!!!” she cackled.
The cock followed with jetting speed. He pursued her like a professional athlete. There was no denying he was blessed with the instinct of a hunter. He dived in the air doing his super-cock cruise. His king-size frame formed a horizon over the fleeing hen. The shade he provided her was kind of cool, yet it possessed the traits of a looming darkness.
“KwaqKwaaqKwaaq...” clucked the hen in harsh disapproval when the cock bounced his entire bulkiness on top of her. Hard as she struggled, there was no escape. In the futile attempt to get up from underneath him, her shapely leg - nice fowl legs - got soiled with dirt.
It was with brute strength that the cock tried to steady the uncooperative hen. Her head was still twitching this way and that. The cock used his sharp beak to nail the tuft at the back of her head. That singular action put her to a hold.
“B-a-i-n-b-r-i-d-g-e!-!-!” thundered another cock.
The cock on top of Niima did not heed to the protest coming from behind. Having suffered to gain access to the hen’s honey pot, he was only to give her the solo thrust when he felt himself launched into space.
It was with the force of a charging racehorse that the protesting cock propelled Bainbridge using his head.
“Thank God for you, Ammar!” the hen panted as she was liberated from her captive. “This fool is trying to rape me,” she reported, taking refuge behind her emancipator.
Gravity pulled the rapist cock back to mother earth with the same force with which he was blasted off. He landed with a heavy thud on his right wing.
“You behave like a he-goat, Bainbridge!” raged Ammar the cock. “How many times will I tell you to keep away from my fiancee?” Ammar appeared set for a showdown. His wattle was hanging down from his throat like the long beard of a mujahedin. Given the way his feathers were roughly puffed up, it was easy to imagine he had concealed explosives in them, just as a suicide bomber would do.
Bainbridge felt so hurt. Not from physical pain. But from the pain of having been denied the opportunity to ravish Niima the hen. He was already on his feet gearing for a cock-fight. Spreading, were the quills that formed his tail, a glazed black that shines. The quills seemed to emit hot exhaust of gas; as if being discharged from a powerful turbojet of an American fighter plane.
Bainbridge the cock, a New Hampshire breed, was a direct descendant of chickens who originated from yankeedom. His proud yellowish skin, his chestnut red plumage, spoke volumes about the hereditary physique of his ancestry. He bounced like a prized boxer. His deep sawed-comb, lavish as it was, danced on his head like the crown of a mad emperor. His good feathering fiercely blew out, resembling a porcupine ready for war.
“Since the day the people who own you brought you to this village,” Ammar the cock was still venting, “all the pretty hens have had one complaint or the other to make about you.” He said stretching out his neck menacingly, eyeing Bainbridge with a stone face.
“Yes! He is fond of harassing us.” quickly chipped in the hen.
“It is unfortunate human beings don’t understand chicken talk.” Ammar continued. “If not, I would have had a small chat with your owners to have you slaughtered!”
Faafaafaafaa... sounded a violent flapping of wings. The cock combatants had leaped into the air. They were attacking each other in what proved to be a latest display of chicken kung fu.
“Deal with him, Ammar! Deal with him!” cackled Niima then in support of her hero.
A cloud of feathers burst in the issuing clash and was left dangling overhead by the time they landed. The feathers glided down in slow show upon them. Niima’s defender, Ammar the cock, was flat on the ground, motionless.
“Oh my God! Bainbridge, you have killed him.” cried the hen. She was shaking her head and weeping hysterically.
Bainbridge stood militantly over his opponent. He had used his giant leg, the left one, to strike the Mediteranean breed a deadly blow. A handsome chunk of white feather had been yanked off the Leghorn’s chest, leaving a deep wound. Perhaps, Ammar’s heart had stopped beating. No doubt his relations would be saddened to hear the news of his death.
But lo! In a twinkle of an eye, Ammar the cock sprang up and raced for his dear life. Bainbridge felt no mercy for his foe. He chased the enemy with all the energy of Chicken Feeds.
“Come back here you terrorist!” Bainbridge triumphantly crowed after Ammar.
The hen wailed, “Where are you going, Ammar? Stay and fight back like a cock!”
Ammar was already miles away. Bainbridge calculated he could not capture him for the time being. He made the sound of a rook, “Qwoooook... you can run but you can’t hide”! And so he negotiated for a U-turn. He checked his velocity with the skills of an evil genius. He was moving with astonishing speed, heading straight for Niima again.
“Please! Bainbridge, please!” Niima begged as she took flight.
“You chicken brain!” returned Bainbridge while catching up with her. “So I’m the one you call a fool? I’m sure going to teach you a lesson today.”
“My papa,” fondly called my grandmother. “Papa!” she persisted.
“Coming” I answered.
The chickens ran past me where I sat under a tree. They disappeared through the backyard of a group of mud huts that stood in my grandfather’s compound in Koton-Karfe, a small West African village.
A. A. Rufai is a university of Jos graduate of English based in Jos. E-mail: joscirle@yahoo.co.uk.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004