I Serial Killed Rosie.

I think I’m a decent enough cook. I can make decent meals, the basics; Ugali, meat, rice, chapati you know? Basic Kenyan essentials. I can’t however, make a feast on my own.

Kenyan feasts require Chicken and beef and mutton and pork and all those juicy animals that need to be slaughtered. And I get chills every time I imagine that someday I’ll have to slaughter something, especially chicken (something tells me that in future I’ll be keeping chicken and it’s not a luhya thing or anything).

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not about to be a vegan or anything, it’s just that slitting something’s throat is not an easy task.

And then I’m just very clumsy so a bunch of stuff would probably go wrong.

I’m very fond of animals so I’d probably name my chicken. The biggest one I’d name Rosie because it just suits her.

And my husband would call me from work one Easter and say, “Babe, my mum is coming over for the weekend this Easter imagine? She wants me to pick her up from town at 5pm.”

“What?? I’m not ready for a visit from your mum Babe! Why on such short notice?”

“Ah si you know my mum. Don’t worry, we’ll be ready for her. We’ll slaughter one of the chicken for her, she’ll be cool about it.”

“Sawa. Si you’ll come home early you do it before you go pick her up?”

“Aki babe si you know how I feel about blood?”

Then I’d have to do it myself.

So I’d go out into the backyard and pluck sweet Rosie from the rest of the chicken to go give her the talk. And the other chicken would discuss solemnly amongst themselves about Rosie’s fate and their own good luck for having escaped The Knife (when I say it like that it sounds like circumcision, doesn’t it?).

And poor sweet Rosie would be unaware.

“Look Rosie, it’s not you it’s me. Well actually it’s Easter and my mother-in-law is coming over and well, you are my number one chicken. She’ll love your drumsticks.”

And Rosie will sense the first scent of betrayal in the air at the mention of drumsticks and she’ll start acting fidgety and jumpy as she sees me looking for something in the kitchen cabinets – a knife. And that’s when she’ll make a ran for it.

And I’ll ran after her around the kitchen, through the living room, up the stairs into the bathroom, knife in hand.

She’ll find the bathroom window open and she’ll jump onto the windowsill then she’ll look back at me frantically as if to say,

“I’m warning you Tess, I’ll jump if you come any closer! I have nothing to lose! I’m a crazy chicken with nothing to lose!”

“Don’t you dare jump out that window Rosie!”

But she’ll do it. She’ll do it because she’s a crazy chicken. And her primal instinct as a bird will fail to kick in because she’s a heavy chicken and she’ll fall rapidly into my rose garden in the backyard(I also see myself having a garden), full of thorns. She’ll be trapped.

And I’ll run downstairs and into the backyard to get her. She’ll have a broken leg and a fractured wing.

“I told you not to do it Rosie. You’ve made things harder on yourself.”

I’ll carry her maimed body back into the kitchen and lay her down on the counter.

I’ll raise my knife and she’ll give me one last betrayed look and the knife will come down on her frail neck.

And Rosie will clack her last complaints then spray me with all the blood her vessles held – karma.

It’ll then be my turn to scream frantically and just then, as if karma hadn’t finished with me, my husband and my Mother-in-law will walk in.

“Hey babe, mum arrived earlier than expected and I went to pick…. Wah babe! Kwani what happened? Are you okay??” He’ll say as he rushes over to where I am.

“I serial killed Rosie honey!!” I’ll say crying like a maniac.

Then my Mother-in-law will look at her son and ask him with contempt, “Dîrîchiririì waugire nū aruge?” (I thought you said she could cook?)

And we would end up eating fish for Easter because you don’t have to slaughter a fish.

Hey guys,

Its been a while,huh? I’ve been busy working on a project that is now done and I can’t wait to share it with you all. I’ll show you soon.

Have a great Easter guys✌