About my chicken...

In response to my last journal entry, someone asked in a comment that they posted at the end of the message: "Have you named your chicken yet? Is it a laying hen? That means you could have fresh eggs for your brrreakfasts!! :-)" I've decided to dedicate a journal entry to an answer for that question...

As I mentioned in my previous journal entry, I was once given the gift of a chicken. It was a male chicken actually, so it didn't give me any eggs. At least I assume it was a male chicken because the local people called it a "cock," and I believe the term is technically meant to refer to the male of the species. However, I could be wrong as I realise local usage of the word in Kenya might possibly be different. Whatever the case, however, I'm afraid I never named my chicken. I ate it instead.

The chicken was given to me in Africa a few years ago. We visited a little house in a rural village of Africa. I think it was a mud hut with a thatched roof. It was after dark at the end of a long day of ministry, and someone from the village had asked if my team and I could stop by this house to share about God. The little house was packed full of people who were eager to receive teaching from the Bible, so though I was tired I spoke for quite some time. Then they gave us tea and bread and we finally left after it had become very late.

As I was standing outside waiting to get in the little car we were travelling in, Julius Njuki, my interpreter, told me we had been asked to wait just a moment because the host family wanted to give me a gift of appreciation. After a few minutes had passed, I was told to hold out both of my arms. As it was so dark that I couldn't really see anything, I just obediently held out my arms and waited to see what they would place in them. It was a strange feeling as they placed the gift in my arms because I could quickly tell it was alive, but I had no idea what it was. I turned to Julius and asked him, "What is it?" He said a word that, because of his accent, sounded like, "Cook. It's a cook." I didn't understand as I couldn't imagine that they had given me a cook small enough to hold in my arms. After a few attempts, however, I understood that he was saying it was "a cock."

Job, one of our team members, tied the chicken's legs and put it into the boot of our car. Then we drove on to our next destination. I actually never saw my chicken again alive. Julius kindly took it to his wife, and a few days later when we returned to Nairobi he invited me over to his house and we had a chicken dinner. The meal was really good, and now that I think of it I am glad we never got around to naming the chicken. The idea of eating a chicken supper didn't bother me, but I think it would have been difficult had it been a "Henry" supper or an "Alan" dinner. Either way, however, I was informed that the gift was considered a great hounour in the culture I was working in. One missionary was amazed when he heard about it. He said, "I have lived here for many years, and I have never been given the gift of livestock!" He said that it was a great gift indeed.