Cock transplant

Barolong Seboni | Friday June 20, 2014 15:56

You will recall, dear reader with the memory of an African elephant, that our friend Chicken had to undergo a very painful operation not so long ago. This operation was of a surgical variety where he had to have one part of his personality and very character removed and replaced by another. Yes, our friend and beloved brother had to undergo a name transplant.

It was by all accounts a very traumatic experience. And understandably so because as you know, he had lived with the name Chicken since he was young. If fact, if memory serves me well, he actually came with that name from the township of Soweto into Botswana as an economic refugee in the late seventies. The story goes that he was required to fill out some official forms by the authorities when he first arrived here. He got to the part where he had to declare his profession whereupon he wrote “chicken killer.” The officer on duty was concerned by this strange declaration and thought he set the record straight since these were after all official government documents that needed to be accurate and precise.

“What on earth is a chicken killer?” enquired the diligent civil servant.

“I work in a slaughter house, a slag huis,” replied our man.

“Aha, you mean a sort of abattoir?”

“Ya, that one… abattoir. It was an abattoir slaughter house for chickens and I was the one who killed them by slaughter!” explains Chicken.

“No, but you can’t write ‘chicken killer’ as a profession.”

“Haai, oa hlanya, you want I must write chicken murder? But I’m not a chicken murder, I’m a killer. Ek is a chicken killer!”

And that is how the name stuck to him like an egg to a chicken. The name stayed with him for so long that it became a part of him. You could only separate them through some surgical procedure!

I am afraid that’s what happened when the congregation of The Church of the Holly Goat, led by the women’s society and chorale, decided in their infinite and pious wisdom that they could no longer have a chicken for a prophet. They preferred a name that resonated with them. A name that crowed with power and piety. Besides, as one of the women ba seaparo pointed out, there is no evidence of chickens in the Holy Book. But there is surely a reverence to a cock that crowed no less than three times. Sundry other reasons were brought forth by the zealous congregation and finally he was re-christened “the Cock-that-leaves-no –hen-unturned.”

In fact, his whole prophetic regalia was designed to resemble a peacock in all its heavenly pride. And I can stand in front of you my dear reader and swear upon the holy book that is opened on the new testament verses that the garments and the attire suited him so well that he might as well been born in them.

And now, hardly five years later, we are gathered at the Nitty Gritty around the oblong table, with the general membership of the Tsogang Banna Julle Bliksem association of men demanding that he should either step down as chairman or change his name.

“He should have a name transplant!” insists one fellow who has known him for at least three of those five years.

“We cannot have a cock as the head. We are an association of self respecting men and we should worry what people think or say.”

“Yes, Mr Convener, I fully agree that we must also be seen to be gender sensitive. It’s the height of gender insensitivity to parade in front of other people led by a… I mean with a guy called Cock!”

“Would you rather hide behind a chicken?” asks another fellow with obvious sarcasm.

“Mister, all I’m saying is that he needs a name transplant! Remove the Cock and leave the Chicken!”