Two days ago, a chicken ruined my life.
Not just any chicken.
This was the meanest, smartest chicken in Elwanikha village.
And it was waiting for me.
Let me start from the beginning.
I had just returned from Nairobi. Eight months away had changed me. At least, that's what I wanted everyone to think.
I stepped off the Climax bus at the Mungasti stage. Head high. Chest out.
My jeans were too tight. My sharpshooter shoes hurt my toes. But I didn't care.
I wasn't Village Martin anymore. I was Martin from Zimmerman. The big city guy. Nicknamed as “Martin wa Zimmer”
Big mistake.
"Welcome home!" Mother ran to hug me.
I stepped back. Straightened my fake designer shirt.
"Mum," I said, nose in the air. "Please speak English."
Her smile dropped. The compound went quiet.
Even the goats stopped eating to stare.
Grandmother sat in her corner. Peeling cassava. Watching. Waiting.
That should have been my first warning.
For three days, I played my role:
- I wouldn't sit on wooden stools to avoid getting dirt
- I spoke broken English
- I took selfies with the cows
- I complained about village dust
Then came Christmas Day.
The sun was burning hot while the food was cooked on open fires. Children ran wild.
Then, the Perfect time for my big speech arrived.
I stood under the mango tree. Cleared my throat.
"My dear village people," I began.
The chicken struck.
It came from nowhere. Brown feathers. Sharp claws. Eyes like fire.
Grandmother's fighter chicken. The terror of Elwanikha.
But here's what I didn't know:
- This chicken had training
- This chicken had a mission
- This chicken had been waiting
It charged straight at me.
At that moment, time froze.
My legs shook. My mouth opened.
Then it happened.
"MAYI INGOKHO ino ,, Ni ya nani chameni!" Translated as (Mother, this chicken is for who?)
Deep Luhya accent mixed with broken Swahili.
My fake English vanished.
My city swagger died.
My cousin recorded everything.
The compound exploded with laughter.
But wait. It gets worse.
The chicken wasn't done.
It chased me around the compound. Three times.
My tight jeans split.
My pointed shoes flew off.
Headlines showed: "How to Speak Like a Nairobi Person" "Ten Steps to Look Rich" "Fake It Till You Make It"
More laughter.
By evening:
- Every phone had my scream
- Children had a new dance
- Dogs howled along
- Even the church choir made a song
They called it "The Return of Village Martin."
But the biggest shock?
Grandmother's smile.
She walked to the chicken. Gave it extra maize seeds.
"Good job," she whispered. "Mission complete."
That's when I knew.
This was no accident.
This chicken was a spy.
Grandmother's secret weapon against city pride.
Now, two days later:
- My accent is back
- I eat with my hands
- I speak my mother tongue
- I sit on the wooden stool
The chicken watches me. Always watching.
Grandmother says nothing. But her eyes twinkle.
Some say she trained that chicken.
Some say she planned everything.
Me? I believe it.
Because yesterday I saw her:
- Feeding it special corn
- Showing it pictures
- Pointing at my cousin from Kisumu
He comes home next week.
Poor guy doesn't stand a chance.
The chicken is ready.
Grandmother is waiting.
Another city star is about to fall.
Welcome to Elwanikha village.
Where chickens bring you home.
P.S. That chicken? Still rules the compound. My scream? Still, the village ringtone. My pride? Gone with the dust.
But I learned my lesson: Never pretend to be what you're not. A chicken will find out. And the whole village will know.
This is my story. The truth.
Now, excuse me. I see that chicken coming. Time to run.
