NEVER TRUST MEN WITH HENS

As if mother knew why I didn’t want to go to school that morning.

She looked at me over her bowl of porridge like she had CCTV in my brain. “You people are not going.“

It had rained that morning in and around Anloga. Not cute drizzle rain. This was “Noah please come back” rain. The kind that washes away roads, goats, and small boys’ ambitions. The only bridge linking Anloga to our school had been washed away. It was now a swimming pool with commitment issues.

My kid sister and I immediately declared the day a “no school day.” We even made a press statement in the kitchen.

Then reality hit me twice.

First, I would miss my friends and the daily gossip about who copied whose homework.

Secondly, and more tragically, I would not be able to show my new school bag to my friends.

Friends, let me describe this bag. It was not a bag. It was a government project.

Made of wood, metal and leather. It weighed approximately one cement block. I have no idea where my father bought it. Probably from a carpenter who lost a bet. But it was no ordinary bag. This bag had CV.

Talk of abacus and it was there. Pen, pencil, eraser, timetable, water bottle, just mention them. My bag also came with a purse. For what, I don’t know. I had 50 pesewas and dreams.

In one of the pockets was a mouth organ. In another pocket was a toy flute and a whistle. Basically I was walking around like a one-man marching band who also did math.

Mother said we should not go to school. I said “Mother, with all due respect, history is happening today and I must be there to post it.” She looked at the sky, looked at my face, and accepted that we went. We were almost late for school. Dad had gone on a trek, so we had to go by taxi. The taxi driver spent the whole ride praying and cursing the rain in equal measure.

At school, everybody admired my new bag. It was the talk of the whole school that day. Even the headmaster asked to see it. I became a celebrity. Kids who had never said hi to me were suddenly my “best friend since KG.” I did a whole product launch during break.

“Ladies and gentlemen, watch as I remove the abacus. Now the mouth organ. Now the whistle. Beep beep.” I felt like a tech CEO.

After school, we decided to walk home. Because we were broke, brave, and stupid. The holy trinity of childhood.

We walked all the way from Asukwa through Lobito to Anloga. We were singing. We were sweating. The bag was still on my back, giving me posture and back pain.

We got home without my bag. What happened?

Ah. The Hen Incident.

When we got to around Wood Village, we decided to use the shortest route. Shortest route is Ghanaian for “the route with the most drama.” This meant scaling walls, walking through a long aisle, and dodging aunties’ washing lines. All this while I had my bag strapped to my back like I was in the army.

Then we met him. A young man chasing a hen.

Now, if a grown man is chasing a hen in public in 1990-something Anloga, you have two options. Walk away. Or star in his Nollywood movie.

We chose Nollywood.

He greeted us, panting like he had run a marathon. “Please, please help me catch this hen!“

The hen looked at us like “don’t involve me in your scam.” But we were 10. We had civic duty. We were taught in school that we should do good to all manner of persons. Even persons with questionable poultry goals.

So we started chasing the hen. We chased it. We pursued it. We wanted it. We negotiated with it. The hen tried its best to escape. It cut corners better than a trotro driver. It jumped fences. It gave us motivational problems.

The young man kept encouraging us. “You can do it! Left! Right! It’s tired! It’s almost giving up!” The hen was not tired. The hen had a 5-year plan.

We got to a crossroad. Four roads met there under a mango tree. This is where in every Ghanaian story, bad decisions are made.

The man turned to me and said the sentence that should be framed in the Museum of Bad Ideas: “Brother, give me your bag to keep while we chase the hen. It will slow you down.“

I almost declined. My brain said “no.” My Sunday School brain said “help your neighbor.” My Sunday School brain won. On that premise, I agreed.

I took off the wooden, metal and leather bag. I handed it over like I was handing over national secrets. He placed it by the mango tree very carefully. Too carefully. Like someone who had done this before.

We chased the hen for another 15 minutes. The hen eventually filed for retirement and disappeared. We were very exhausted. We were very hungry. We were very useless.

We came back to the crossroad.

The mango tree was there. The bag was not.

We shouted: “Brother! Brother!“

Echo: “brother… brother…“

We shouted: “My bag!“

The mango tree: “…“

Silence. The kind of silence that tells you your mother is about to ask you one question and you have no answer.

I went home crying: “My school bag! My school bag!“

I cried like I had lost a relative. Because I had. That bag and I had shared a lot. It had carried my abacus. It had carried my dignity.

Mother took one look at me and didn’t even shout. That was worse. She just said, “Eh. So the rain was not enough sign for you?“

When Dad came back from his trek, I told him. He listened, nodded, and said, “A kind heart is good. A brain is also good. Try to carry both next time.“

For weeks after, I had trust issues. I didn’t trust hens. I didn’t trust crossroads. I didn’t trust men who say “keep this for me.” I also didn’t trust myself with nice things.

Here is what I learned, in case you need it for BECE:

1. If it is raining and the bridge is gone, that is not a challenge. That is God saying “stay home.“

2. If a man is chasing a hen and he is not a butcher, he is a businessman. And you are the product.

3. Never give your bag to anyone at a crossroad. Crossroads are for decisions, not for depositing wood-metal-leather government projects.

4. The shortest route is usually the longest regret.

Months later I saw a bag like mine in Asukwa market. I walked past it. I’m a different person now. Wiser. Broader. Still a little mad at that hen.

To this day, whenever I hear a whistle, I look around. Whenever I see a mango tree, I check underneath. And whenever someone asks me for “small help,” I ask, “is a hen involved?“

If you ever visit Anloga and a kid offers to help you chase a chicken, just say no. Keep your bag. Keep your abacus. Keep your dignity. And if you see my bag, with the mouth organ and the toy flute, please return it. The whistle still works. I tested it in my dreams.