For many of us, the highlight of the week was the weekend. Equally, it was a trying time for many youngsters. And not because school was out. The moment your mother gave instructions for that chicken to be caught meant the whole neighbourhood would converge on your yard.
Matters were complicated by the fact that chasing a chicken was a tiresome job. It, therefore, required as many chasers as possible. So, the moment the neighbourhood heard the chickens cackling in fear, it would be a signal for the chasers to arrive. They would arrive in all sizes and shapes. Even the fat ones who never took part in any athletic activity would sidle up. The chicken never stood much of a chance. Surrounded by a battalion of blood thirsty hungry urchins, it would be caught and its throat slit. That did not mean the chasers would go back to their homes. Fat chance of that happening. They would loiter around and want to play. The reason they did not go anywhere was because they were waiting to be rewarded for their efforts.
In their minds, a just reward was sharing lunch with their friend whom they had helped chase the chicken. For many of us, our childhoods were scarred by having to share the best meal of the week with a whole group of youngsters who had volunteered their services to chase the chicken. I could never understand why our mothers could not scold them and tell them to go as soon as the chicken was caught. Perhaps it was a lesson to greedy children to learn to share their food with their friends. But I didn’t like it one bit. I don’t know of anyone who liked it. And not because we were not friends. I mean, during the whole week we would be as tight as thieves, getting into all sorts of mischief together. But all the gaiety and camaraderie of the week would abruptly screech to a halt when Saturday morning came and it was time to chase the chicken. Although none of us wanted to share our chicken lunch with anybody, we invariably ended up having to.
I used to wonder why I was not instructed to catch the chicken during the night when my friends were fast asleep so that the following morning they would think my lunch was going to be ordinary and so wander off to homes where a chicken needed to be caught. Some parents were apparently more cunning. Upon witnessing a gang of boys spying for a chicken to chase, they would just take it easy and allow their boy to be helped with the chore. They would also let their boy play with the chasers who would be casting anxious looks in the direction of the aroma wafting from the kitchen. But the moment lunch was ready, the mother would bellow from inside the house calling her son. He would excuse himself to attend to his mother. The more optimistic of the chasers would relax and start salivating, thinking he had gone to fetch his plate of lunch.
The more experienced would drift away, sullen, knowing he was not coming back to play until he had finished his lunch. After some time, the boy would emerge, with a contented smile and want to continue play. But by that time everybody would be bitter, and hungry and with no interest at all in any playful activity. Other parents were very strict. They would not allow any kids to visit on weekends. But their kids were allowed to visit other homes. So, we had an unfair situation where some chaser would share in someone’s lunch, and then happily go home but not before reminding us that his father did not allow any visitors.
It was not only the chicken that traumatised our childhoods. There was condensed milk. In every home, it accompanied the tea drank by grown ups. As soon as they were done it was sealed and put away. Now, the thing about condensed milk was that it was sweet and thick. It was so sweet that we would sneak in, cast furtive glances and when the coast was clear suck it into our mouths straight from the tin. In order not to be caught, one had to suck quickly and get out before being discovered. But condensed milk was so thick to suck from the tin that many times we were caught in the act by a grown up, with painful consequences.
Then there was sugar. If anyone was not looking, we would hit the sugar container and enjoy ourselves. But with sugar we were caught easily. Because everything had to be done hastily, grains of sugar would be left stuck on our lips and punishment would follow for stealing sugar. I do not know if the kids of today get up to the kinds of things we did. But I doubt. I mean, these days chicken is bought in the supermarkets and many families can afford it. It is no longer the highlight meal of the week. After all, the kids can be taken for pizza. During our days, there was nothing like that. As for condensed milk and sugar, I guess they are no big deal either.
Today’s kids are into ice cream and lollipop. But such were our experiences that even after all these years, I am still traumatised. I am scarred from having to share my chicken lunch with chasers from the neighbourhood. I am traumatised from having had to steal sugar and condensed milk. Nowadays there is something called closure. That is when you do something to banish all the unpleasant memories from the past. I, therefore, want closure on my traumatised childhood. I will do it on my birthday. By the way, I am already in middle age.
On my next birthday, I am planning to buy tins and tins of condensed milk. I will also buy a small packet of sugar. I will cook myself a whole chicken. I will then lock myself in the house, switch the phone off and devour everything. And by everything I mean the whole chicken, tins of condensed milk and the packet of sugar. I might even get somebody to take photos of me enjoying myself. Come to think of it, I will send my mother the photograph showing me sucking on my tin of condensed milk. Bought with my own money!
