Her thumb and index fingers dances up and down the hen’s neck as if to scratch an itch. However, each stroke of her hand moving up showed a few feathers being plucked off from the skin of the hen’s neck. In a short while, a bare patch of clear white skin, with goose pimples mark on it, was exposed.  

The sharp average looking kitchen knife sliced the surface of the hen’s neck revealing a clean cut. The newly exposed flesh was quickly pointed towards an empty bowl collecting fresh warm blood. The hen struggled for a while and went limped. The hen was then placed in a basin. Hot boiling water was poured into the basin.

At eight, I was the youngest to be given the responsibility of de-feathering the slaughtered hen, obviously dead. I turned the limped hen round and round to pick the last feather. I then placed it in another empty plate after completion. I was awaiting near a well for the next chicken for de-feathering.

Suddenly, the naked hen woke up and walked away from the scene. I jumped, I screamed and I stared in shock. Just as suddenly, as if it understood my fear, the hen decided to turn around. Stared back at me and started approaching me. Then it gave chase with me running and screaming away from the naked chicken round the compound.

I almost fainted out of sheer fear and anxiety just looking at the naked chicken running towards me. My mum came to my rescue. She reached out to the naked chicken, took another cut across the neck slicing the main artery releasing it from it’s suffering. I cried my last tears as I hid behind her, stealing an occasional look at the now limped hen half expecting it to wake up again.

I remembered swearing that I will never be involved in the slaughtering of a chicken again. I’ll stay to eating instead.

 

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