Not for the Chicken Hearted

Nobody could point a finger at a Zanzibari for lack of initiative. They were full of it and other things besides!!

So it came about that two individuals, Max and Maurice (my brother) both in their early teens with visions of grandeur by adopting get-rich-quickly schemes, decided that business was the answer to their financial doldrums.  Max, who confessed to know everything about chicken farming (and most everything else; he spoke very eloquently about everything he knew and did not know, which might have qualified him to be a better used-car salesman than and chicken farmer) roped Maurice into ordering fifty Leghorns (“chickens” for the uninitiated) from Nairobi.  It was going to be a fifty-fifty investment proposition and the profits were to be spilt equally.  Max had worked out on paper just exactly how long it would take the chicks to grow into full grown lusty egg layers.  He predicted how many eggs would be laid; calculated how much would have to be spent on chicken feed which was also ordered from Nairobi. Finally he factored in the rent for the farm house.   After the sale of eggs, the balance was thought to be no chicken feed.

Wasting no time, the adventurous duo set about looking out for a location to house their chicks.  They were able to rent an abandoned bungalow close to Bweni about ten miles out of town.  The day finally came. Both Max and Maurice waited for their chickens like expectant fathers.   The chicks had arrived and were brought to their new surroundings.  The largest bedroom was to be the coup for the chicks that ran all over the place flexing their legs and stretching their necks which for hours were bent over in their restrictive cage while being transported by East African Airways from Nairobi.  Both Max and Maurice were beaming with enthusiastic smiles that at long last their fledgling experiment was steadily becoming a reality and that before long, they would be on their way to a life of luxury somewhere on the French Riveira.

They spent their nights at the bungalow sleeping on makeshift beds on the floor, keeping one eye open for intruders who generally were at home tucked in soft beds, sleeping much more soundly than they did.

After a few tiresome weeks, the chicks had grown into good looking hens with a whole lot of promise. The four roosters (we called them “cocks” in those days) were now in their prime and looked like potential rakes and acted their roles.   After six weeks or so, there was still no sign of an egg. The “cocks” were doing their thing with the enthusiasm of sexual maniacs and the hens were trying to look as sexy as hens can be, strutting their feathers as an attention seeking technique.  

No eggs yet?! This was a very worrying situation and demanded immediate investigation.  Max went to the public library and made very quick reference, so he said.  Maurice suspected that he went home to get some sleep after so many nights of sleep deprivation. There was no substitute for a soft bed.

Shortly thereafter, Max returned to the farm and explained that the chickens were egg bound.  He made Maurice understand that it was a form of constipation and that the eggs were not dropping out for some psychological reason. He was quick to add that this did not happen to human beings, though some mothers might have wished it happened to them too.   Maurice suggested that perhaps it was their 5-star coup that was spoiling them.  Maybe they should be subjected to some real rough insect infested, worm crawling environment rather than be raised with curtains hugging the windows.. A few worldly knocks might knock the eggs out of them.  What the chickens need was tough love!

Then came the delicate operation.  Max caught hold of a chicken that reluctantly cooperated and shoved his little finger you-know-where to verify and to determine for himself that the chicken showed signs of a potential egg that was waiting to come into the world. Of course, Maurice’s ignorance was palpable.  If he was told even at this stage, that only stocks brought those eggs in the dead of night, he would have probably believed Max.  But there was no stopping Max.  He continued using his littlest finger as a barometer to determine whether the chickens were egg bound or just on strike.  Maurice branded him as being some sort of perverse chicken maniac.

The following morning at sunrise, three chickens were found dead.  Did this have something to do with Max’s questionable operation the previous day?  By late evening another four chickens dropped dead.  Maurice admonished Max about the previous day’s operation and laid the blame squarely on him for being so finger happy and a fraud.  Max defended himself by showing Maurice his little finger.  It was clear that in time the relation between Max and Maurice would go the way the chickens were going.

The chickens were obviously attacked by some kind of insidious virus that has been known to wipe out large colonies of chickens in upscale chicken farms.  Neither of them knew this at the time.  Within a week all the chickens dropped dead, (even those that were spared Max’s finger) and there was no egg in sight.

Maurice and Max put this down to experience and abandoned the operation with what can only be described as a faked hand shake.

A few months later, however, Max cautiously called Maurice on the phone and asked him whether he would like to go into the pig business.

The phone suddenly went dead.

(Max passed away several years ago. God bless his soul.  I remember him as a good friend who loved life.  The critical statements made about him in this story were merely to add a little humour.  My wish for him is that perhaps he should try chicken farming in the great beyond and with Divine assistance he is bound to be able to count his chickens before they are hatched.)