I knew from the start that being a
vegetarian in Africa would not go without many explanations of why
and how. My host-family said they many past volunteers that have
housed also were vegetarian, but my mama took no care to hide her
disappointment that I would rather not eat meat, especially chicken
which was her favorite meat to prepare. My sister bragged about how
well her mama prepares chicken and how sad she was I wouldn't try any
of the dishes. After the first week of consuming beans as my main
source of protein, a source that was provided about once every other
day if I was lucky, I decided to transition to a bit more
protein-rich diet of pescetarianism. Fish is readily available at
local restaurants and my family was glad to take a step closer to
their normal diets with having fish once or twice a week. I
continued with this diet for about a month, during which I sat
through several hour-long lectures by my brother who explained the
more natural methods of raising chickens in TZ compared to the US and
their support of local farmers who do not use steroids and only feed
their chickens seeds and grass. One Sunday afternoon, after sitting
through another one of these lectures, I agreed to eating chicken.
Right away my brother told his daughter, who told mama, to which her
face lit up with joy and she went out to buy a chicken to cook for
dinner that same night.
Since my first consumption of the bird,
I have eaten it four other times when I have felt confident the bird
was allowed to roam about and eat things that a bird would naturally
eat. Things changed a bit last night when I visited a friend of the
family and he gave me a chicken as a departure gift. As I waited to
leave his home, he scrounged his place for a box. I thought, “Why
does he need a box? Wouldn't a bag suffice?” After a period of
time he came back with a box from the neighbor. Then he disappeared
into the kitchen and returned with a knife. I was only half-paying
attention and thought he was trying to cut the flaps off of the box.
He disappeared again then returned with hemp string- okay, so he
couldn't cut the flaps off so instead he would tie the box. The logic
didn't make sense but my mind was distracted with the day's events.
My friend disappeared again and when he returned he carried a live
chicken. Wait...WHAT?! I looked closely at the box and realized he
had been cutting air holes in the sides, and the string, as you can
guess, was to keep the lid closed. I couldn't help but laugh and ask
if it was normal to take a live chicken on the daladala. He laughed
only once, slightly confused by my surprise but reassured me it was
no big deal. He then proceeded to hold the chicken down, close the
flaps and tie the box. Before I could think about what was happening
any further, we were out the door and headed towards the road. A
crowded daladala came and I was ushered on and handed the tied box
with the precious chicken sitting inside. Immediately I imagined the
chicken getting disturbed, fluttering in the box, breaking the string
and flying around inside this moving vehicle, causing a commotion
that the locals would forever remember as the crazy mzungu with the
kuku (chicken). I nervously stood with my upper body bent in the
cramped daladala, cautiously eying the people around me, trying to
gauge their reaction when the chaos should erupt. I was surprised
when the daladala reached my station and the string remained securely
tied. But I had only felt the chicken shift once in its box., maybe
it died from stress, I reasoned. The step out of the van made the
box shift a bit again, reassuring me that the bird survived. I
walked to my home and opened the kitchen door where mama was
preparing dinner. She turned, saw the box I was holding and burst
into laughter at the irony of the scene and the events she knew just
happened: Mary rode with a chicken on the daladala, a chicken which
was destined to be dinner. I joined in her laughter, confused at the
events that had happened so quickly. When the laughs finally
subsided she cut the string on the box and used it to tie the bird to
the leg of the counter where it stayed throughout the night. This
morning I watched its slaughter and am anticipating the plucking and
cleaning process to happen later today. Then, the body will go into
my homemade chicken-noodle soup.
I think I have to temporarily remove my
identification as vegetarian.
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