The Day the Chickens Voted

In the town of Gran Ravin, people took two things very seriously: Carnival costumes and politics. So when Election Day arrived and the ballots were printed with the names of chickens, the town nearly exploded.

“Se blag wi?” barked Madame Jonas, clutching her voting card like a weapon. “Why am I being asked to vote for 'Ti Blan,' 'Gwo Kòk,' and—Bon Dye padon mwen—'Pikè Pye'? That chicken don’t even have both feet!”

The line outside the community center snaked down the dirt road, past the paté vendor and the domino table. People were hot, angry, and very confused. The local election official, Monsieur Louissant—a man whose mustache had more authority than he did—was sweating bullets behind a plastic table.

“There has been...a small printing error,” he announced, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief that had once been white. “But the democratic process must continue!”

“Sa w'ap di la a?” someone yelled. “You want us to vote for chickens now?”

“I don’t want anything,” Louissant said, adjusting his tie, which hung like a limp plantain. “But until we receive new ballots—which may take, ehm, three to five weeks—we must respect the Ministry’s orders. The chickens are...symbolic.”

That’s when 11-year-old Myrlande raised her hand.

Everyone turned.

She stood barefoot in her blue uniform dress, her bookbag slung across her chest like a soldier’s gear. “If the chickens are on the ballot,” she said, “then I vote for Ti Blan.”

A silence fell over the courtyard. Ti Blan, her family’s scrawny white hen, blinked from her basket at her feet, pecked once at a bottle cap, and let out a soft “bok.”

“You can’t nominate a real chicken,” Madame Jonas said, scandalized. “This is still a democracy!”

“It’s exactly a democracy,” Myrlande said, eyes blazing. “And Ti Blan has never stolen rice from anyone. Can you say the same for Mayor Silien?”

A murmur rippled through the crowd.

One by one, other villagers began to whisper. “At least Ti Blan doesn’t make false promises…” “She wake me up every morning—very punctual…” “She don't even have a WhatsApp, so nobody can hack her.”

By noon, posters had gone up. “Vote Ti Blan: Cluck for Change!”

By the time the sun dipped behind the mango trees, Ti Blan had a campaign team.

Myrlande stood at the head of a makeshift desk made from two buckets and a wooden door. Her campaign manager’s badge was a broken clothespin clipped to her shirt, and her assistant—her five-year-old cousin Junior—held a flag made from an old T-shirt and a broomstick.

They’d set up shop right in front of the church.

“If politicians can lie in church,” Myrlande said, “then we can campaign here.”

She had ideas—big ones. “We need a slogan,” she said. “Something powerful. Something the people can chant.”

Junior thought hard, then shouted, “Bok bok bay pouvwa!”

(Cluck cluck give us power!)

Myrlande nodded. “Catchy. Print it on the fliers.”

“We don’t have fliers,” Junior said.

“We have your school notebooks, don’t we?”

Junior blinked.

“Sacrifice for the country, Ti cheri,” Myrlande said, already tearing out math pages and scribbling slogans in pencil. “Ti Blan will bring eggs and equality!”

Across the street, the opposition was forming.

Mayor Silien—who had been missing all morning, reportedly “inspecting potholes” at the beach—returned to town looking confused and furious. He arrived to find a small crowd waving signs, shouting slogans, and—yes—chanting bok bok bay pouvwa with alarming unity.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded, straightening his already-too-tight shirt. “Is this a protest? A coup?”

“More like a coop,” someone muttered. Laughter erupted.

“You’re running against a chicken, Mr. Mayor,” said Madame Jonas, arms crossed. “And the chicken is winning.”

Mayor Silien turned redder than his campaign T-shirts. “You want a chicken for mayor? Fine! Then I will nominate Gwo Kòk!”

From behind him came the proud squawk of his prize rooster—shiny, loud, and absolutely terrifying. Gwo Kòk strutted forward like he owned the country.

And just like that, the election had a second candidate.

Within the hour, loudspeakers on top of a pickup were blasting Gwo Kòk’s campaign song:

🎶 Vote Gwo Kòk—li pi fò, li pi gwo! 🎶

(Vote Big Rooster—he stronger, he bigger!)

Myrlande stared at the truck like it had insulted her personally. “We need a sound system,” she said.

“We have a kazoo,” Junior offered.

She sighed. “Okay, and we need a strategy.”

By nightfall, the village square had become an all-out political battleground. Ti Blan’s team had painted signs with leftover Carnival glitter. Gwo Kòk’s supporters handed out roasted peanuts and empty promises. People debated loudly at domino tables and over bowls of soup joumou.

And then came the radio.

The next morning, the town’s only radio station, Radio Ti Nèg 98.9 FM, held a debate.

Well, technically, it was supposed to be a debate between Mayor Silien and a local teacher. But after the chicken scandal, the host, Uncle Bobo, changed the lineup.

“We need to hear from the real candidates,” Bobo said, tapping the mic. “Let the chickens speak—or at least, let their campaign managers do it.”

Myrlande arrived wearing her Sunday shoes and her father's old tie. She stood on a stool behind the mic. Ti Blan sat in a shoebox lined with dry corn kernels.

On the other side of the studio: Gwo Kòk, perched proudly on a crate, with Mayor Silien sitting stiffly beside him, clearly uncomfortable and half-covered in feathers.

“Miss Myrlande,” Bobo said, “what would Ti Blan do as mayor?”

Myrlande cleared her throat. “First, she will open the abandoned school again. Education for all, even the children who can’t afford new shoes.”

“Cluck,” said Ti Blan softly.

“She will also ban all public urination on mango trees.”

A few villagers clapped from outside the window.

“And she will end corruption. If anyone steals money, Ti Blan will peck their toes.”

A roar of approval.

“And Gwo Kòk?” Bobo turned to the mayor.

Silien wiped sweat from his brow. “Well, uh, Gwo Kòk is very...vigorous. He wakes up early. He has...muscles.”

“He also attacked a baby last week,” shouted someone from the street.

The debate ended in chaos after Ti Blan pooped on the soundboard. Radio Ti Nèg went off-air for two hours.

Election Day arrived like a hurricane in a teacup.

Vendors lined the streets, selling fried plantains, frozen juice in plastic bags, and bootleg Ti Blan campaign buttons made from bottle caps. Gwo Kòk’s supporters marched in matching red headbands, chanting “Li pi fò!” like a football team. Someone had even made him a cape.

Ti Blan, however, was nowhere to be found.

Myrlande ran up and down the street with her cousin trailing behind her. “I don’t understand,” she panted. “She was in the basket this morning!”

“Maybe she quit politics,” Junior said. “She’s been very stressed.”

Myrlande stopped in the middle of the square, blinking hard. The entire town buzzed around her—waiting for speeches, for music, for results.

And all she had was an empty basket.

Her chest tightened. This wasn’t just a game anymore. She wasn’t just a little girl with glitter posters. She had promised change. She had given people hope. And now her candidate—her chicken—was gone.

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes.

“Ou pa bezwen Ti Blan,” came a voice.

It was Madame Jonas. The old woman stepped forward, smoothing her church dress. “You already won us over, pitit. Not because of the chicken. But because you believed we deserved better.”

The crowd murmured in agreement.

“You stood up to the mayor,” shouted one man. “And you’re eleven!”

“You got my cousin to talk about education for the first time in his life,” someone else added.

“And my daughter made me promise not to pee on mango trees again!” cried a third.

Myrlande sniffled and stood straighter. “Then maybe... maybe this election isn’t about Ti Blan. Maybe it’s about what she represents.”

Someone clapped. Then another. Soon the square echoed with cheers.

Just then, a scream rang out: “La li ye! Ti Blan!”

Everyone turned to see the little white hen trotting down the street, dusty but proud, with a string of Carnival beads tangled around her neck like a victory medal. Behind her limped the goat from yesterday’s protest, looking guilty and slightly full.

Myrlande laughed. “She made a political escape!”

Ti Blan hopped into her basket like nothing had happened.

Uncle Bobo from Radio Ti Nèg climbed onto a makeshift stage. “Mesdames et messieurs, after an intense—and bizarre—campaign season, the results are in.”

He held up a sheet of paper.

“In third place: Mayor Silien, with fourteen votes and a written complaint from his own wife.”

Scattered laughter.

“In second place: Gwo Kòk, with twenty-nine votes and one reported pecking incident at the polls.”

Applause. A few nervous clucks.

“And in first place, with a historic sixty-two votes... Ti Blan!”

The square erupted. Drums started. Someone lit a firecracker. Junior tried to crowd-surf. People tossed confetti made from old school notebooks into the air.

Myrlande stood beside her hen, grinning so wide it hurt.

Uncle Bobo handed her a microphone. “Any words from the mayor-elect?”

Myrlande cleared her throat.

“My name is Myrlande Toussaint, age eleven, and I proudly speak for Ti Blan. She may not speak your language, but she’s honest. She wakes up early. She never promises what she can’t deliver. And she believes in eggs and equality for all.”

Cheers.

“And,” she added, “if you don’t like her policies, remember—she can’t actually pass laws. She’s a chicken.”

Louder cheers.

“But you can. You’ve always been able to. You just needed someone to remind you.”

She paused. Then leaned into the mic with one final line:

“Also, she’d like to request a ban on goats. Effective immediately.”

The crowd exploded.