A Foul Demise

From Great North Road

By Kenneth Miller.
October 2001

In the early 1950's Chitimikulu the Paramount Chief of the Bemba was considered a pretty spiffy dresser. No, his suits did not come from Savile Row or Austin Reeds, but rather they were skillfully crafted in the tailor shop of the Her Majesty's Prison in Kasama. His preference was the fine line of khaki suits rather than the uniform look worn by military despots.

Over the years, old Chitimikulu and my Dad, Tommy Miller the Officer in Charge of the Prison met on numerous occassions.On one visit to the Paramount Chief's palace(a conglomeration of mud and thatched rondavals)near the White Fathers mission at Malole, I had the pleasure of meeting at least ten of his wives and countless number of piccinins. The visit was made even more memorable when the mighty chief poobah of the Bemba gave me a gift of two scrawny looking chickens, this was indeed a great honour for a six year old boy.

As we drove the long dusty road back to Kasama, the time was spent deciding appropriate names for the two fancy birds. After much deliberation it was decided to call them Fred and Sarah. Upon arriving home our fine feathered friends were introduced to our other less noble birds.

Most families in Kasama kept a flock of chickens, not only for the eggs, but many a bird sacrificed their lives to be the family roast for Sunday dinner. As our tour to Kasama came to a close the frequency of roast chicken dinners increased.That was until that fateful day.

The family, that was Mum, Dad, any myself were seated at the large PWD issued dining room table with its heavy chairs, enjoying our evening meal bathed in the soft light of a hissing tilley lamp. Timothy the houseboy attired in his pure white tunic, having cleared the soup plates, then proceeded to cerimoniously carry in a golden roasted chicken on a fine serving platter, placing the roast in front of Dad.

All eyes were on Dad as he slowly rose from his seat ( the only one with arms) picked up the carving knife and fork, looked at the sacrificed chicken and proceeded to surgically carve of a leg. The room fell silent, my bottom lip quivered and tears started to roll down my cheeks. Knowing that this fine bird was the last of the flock, I had to ask the question, " was this Fred or Sarah ? " . Mum followed and also burst into tears, after all Fred and Sarah were like family. Mum and I both knew it was wrong to eat family, immediately left the table mourning the loss of Fred or was it Sarah ? Dad being the carnavour that he was, continued with his meal and enjoyed the succulent chicken.