Manhood

My uncle got me a Plymouth Rock fowl for my tenth birthday.

He insisted I kill it in front of the whole village of Mbakwu

As a symbol of my transition to manhood.

The fowl looked well-fed; spotless white feathers,

Crimson red crown, a nicely polished beak that seemed golden

In the light. It sat quietly.

I glared at it with condescension

Hoping it would look away,

So that I might have a reason

To refuse the murder I was told to commit,

But it didn’t.

I grabbed its neck and placed my knife

Against the skin of its throat.

Use your knife, use your knife, my uncle

Yelled, his eyes lit up with excitement.

Soon enough the whole village

Was chanting for me to kill.

But I wouldn’t have done it had the damn

Bird looked away, but it didn’t.

I tore through its throat.

Blood gushed out as it struggled.

I stepped on its wings and feet

And stood over the flightless bird until its spirit

Finally ascended to the skies.

My palms were painted in blood.

He has done it, my uncle yelled,

He grabbed it by its wings

And shook it viciously in the air.