Neck Bones & Chicken Blood

The following is an excerpt from the upcoming novel ‘Illegally Legal’. Based on true events, it follows Rachel Brown’s journey. The setting is on a farm in a thriving rural township on the island of Jamaica. Rachel is of a middle class family, and they have fallen on hard times watching their patriarch suffer in physical and mental decline. Desperate to find a breakthrough in medicine to reverse the symptoms of his disease or even cure it, Rachel’s mother is introduced to a presumably wealthy businessman from the United States. He promises the family riches by means of a partnership. Thinking those riches could help pay for experimental treatments, everyone including the ailing patriarch sign on to it, but it isn’t the offer they thought it was. With no forthcoming riches, they soon become shockingly aware of an attempt to cleverly bamboozle them out of the family estate. Rachel is having none of it, and understanding her childhood experiences on the family farm provides a glimpse into the reasons for her determination to try and save her father’s legacy. This eviscerating legal warfare spans a decade and crosses the jurisdictions of both the United States and Jamaica. The mind-boggling legal drama in this story includes character assassination of government officials, attorneys, high-court judges, including the chief justice. The story also makes headlines, sending earthquakes throughout the bullish real estate industry on the tiny island paradise.

You might have heard of a person called an obeah man. This figure is not unique to Jamaican culture, only called by different names in different places. For example: you may also have heard of a certain practice called voodoo. Well, the Jamaican obeah man is someone who specializes in arts of such nature. It is common to also see free-roaming chickens in many rural yards, but in the secluded yard where he resides, you are likely to see roosters which are sometimes used in his rituals. He is so believed in that sometimes you might see people walking into a court house carrying a bible with a lime. Maybe you will smell some garlic too if you have occasion to be there while they pass you by. You may also see some people discretely using various oils of this or that trying to heal or cure the sick and dying. If you are into that sort of thing it is still illegal here, but please, that is not what’s happening right now, regardless of what happens next. Peter and I have come of age and we are slaughtering our very first batch of home-grown chickens. We have an order for fifty pounds of meat to be delivered today.

I have watched, alongside Peter, our parents do this for years. It’s time to prove to them we have grown up. Backyard chicken feeds a lot of families. Since Dad’s was no exception and in high demand this rite of passage has become, in a sense, family tradition. No one in the household will ever trust us with fire until we can do this on our own. If successful, Mom will allow us to learn how to cook inside the house. What we are about to do is hard work, but make no mistake, having the house burn down again will send all of us into the asylum. We must learn to handle fire outside before we can inside using a gas burning stove. Our only problem is eagerness to impress having chosen to surprise Mom and Dad by doing it, from start to finish, all on our own this blessed Friday morning. Peter and I secretly agreed to deliver the meat today instead of tomorrow when Mom will be here to help us.

 This is confidence. Even the amount of kerosene oil used to start the wood-burning fire is measured. The chickens matured during summer break so we can get up before dawn and take our time.

We are doing everything by the book: gathering some dried wood, starting a fire using kerosene oil, placing a pot of water over the fire on three carefully positioned stones inside a clearing away from dried grass and the rest of the wood, separating the damned chickens from the rest before the feeding, filling all the tubs with ice water and then, I watch Peter sharpen the knives by rubbing them against each other. Iron sharpens iron, right? 

Smoke from the fire is choking life out of us both and Peter is asthmatic. Reason being some of the wood is a little greener than we like but…we are excited.

Peter is standing away from the fire now, waiting on the smaller pieces of green wood to burn off so the smoke won’t be so noxious, “You know, we have already started smelling like smoke, we should tie scarves around our heads,” he says.

Here, if you see a man with a scarf wrapped around his head, he is either a Rastafarian or and obeah man. I could probably get away with doing it if there is anyone secretly watching in the bushes.

So I tell him, “Your hair is easier to wash than mine. I should be the one complaining.” and move on to test the temperature of the water in the pot with my finger, just right.

Now we begin!

Beaks & Toenails

On the farm we’ve also had hens. When you buy those you have to make an order at the farm store seven months in advance, and the hens are delivered mature. Sometimes you’ll get them with eggs in the boxes they’re delivered in.

The difference between them and these chickens is that the beaks and toenails of the hens are blunted so they can’t peck you with sharp beaks or scratch you with sharp toenails.

Catching the chickens in the dark before dawn was the easy part because they can’t see to run away. Have you ever tried chasing a chicken around? It is what would happen if we didn’t catch them before the sunrise or what will happen if one escapes today. The backyard is big.

A full moon night is running away now. Dawn is breaking and we haven’t slaughtered a single chicken yet. This is already an omen. The dogs are sitting but they are running out of patience. I hear them whimpering.

Peter and I debate getting pecked or clawed for a while, and the chickens delightfully watch from inside their cage. I think they understand us. This debate intrigues them. They probably hope our discomfort will help change our minds. What have we really learned over the years?

Peter is teaching, “You have to grab them under the wings,” he says.

“Dad always grabbed them by the feet,”

Peter is adamant, “Yes but he also got pecked frequently.” He says.

Ok so Mom would grab them under their wings. Peter is right. The problem now is that we have tied a rope to the tangerine tree with a slipknot at the end where the feet are supposed to go through. This is also Mom’s way. The chicken is supposed hang feet first, not swing like an acrobat which it is doing and…we can’t do anything about the flapping wings driving momentum in the chicken swing. Get too close and I’ll get viciously pecked. This one is a freaking rooster, or worse, a rooster freaking out.

Peter has started sneezing, and he somehow finds the time to go inside the house for a shirt to tie around his face. By the time he gets back the chicken is tired of flapping.

Another debate has started.

I start by saying, “You do the honors,” After all Peter is a man now, he should be the one, like dad.

I can tell this debate is getting to the chicken. All that flapping around has loosened the slipknot and the chicken is now hanging by a single foot. We have to get the other one back inside the slipknot and whoever does it will get pecked or clawed. In his effort, Peter has allowed the chicken to escape. We chase it in circles for a good five minutes before it runs under a thicket of acacia. Here we call the shrub ‘casha makka’ or ‘the cat’s claw’. Anyone who knows acacia knows that when hooks of the cat’s claw grab you, you are held in a loving embrace. What surprises me is that the chicken knows this.

Ok so we fetch another chicken from the cage. No we don’t. Even the dogs, who love chicken, are not interested to bark at the one hiding in the acacia. They won’t even go near it. This time I reluctantly volunteer since Peter has been doing most of the work so far. I use a long stick to shoo the chicken out…got grabbed a few times but the chicken is back in the swing. After a brush with acacia I now enjoy getting pecked.

Round two, fight!

Peter has agreed to do the honors. Boy oh boy, did he sharpen the knives!

So again, unlike my father, we opted to do things with more finesse, like mom does. Hence the swinging chicken, and of course knives have replaced the meat-cleaver since we are not the sort to chop off heads on a chopping block and watch them fly across the backyard the way our father would. This method use by my mother we believe is the more humane one, but I was wrong about her.

 Peter pawns the chicken neck with his thumb and finger just like mom does, “Ahhggg, I can feel it breathing sis!” he says.

He’s not even looking at the chicken. We are looking at each other and we count together, “Ready, one, two, three,” and he swipes.  

Peter’s attempt to behead the chicken this way has ended in disaster! I didn’t look, but the knife is on the ground and I catch up to Peter with his long legs in stride. This is just stupidity. Now the dogs decide to start barking. They are looking at the chicken and we are not. We have no clue what is going on with the chicken. Now we are jogging and finally we stop. At this point there should be no words, however,

 “Why did you run?” I ask.

“Leave me alone. You were right behind me, weren’t you?” he says.

After running away we walk back, slowly. I see a tiny cut on the chicken’s neck and it’s not even bleeding. I pick up the knife and run my finger over the blade. This is the first time one of us does it. The blade is as dull as a butter knife. Our problem is fast turning into animal cruelty. We must carry on quickly, my turn.

I can really feel the chicken breathing and wouldn’t have to it we did this Dad’s way. We count again but this time I force myself to keep my eyes on the chicken.

“One, two three,” and I run into the same problem as Peter.

We stand our ground this time. The knife is still in my hand. Peter has had enough. He grabs it and finishes the job. After the first one it got much easier but the sun is way up and it is almost 9 am. Eventually we complete the task by midday without supervision, from memory. Hallelujah!

 We were also able to have our childhood favorite for breakfast, chicken livers roasted in hot ashes, sprinkled with salt and of course, rubbed with a red hot country pepper, Amen!

One challenge remains. We are too young to have a provisional driver’s license, and all this meat has to be delivered today. Mom is at work. Dad is sleeping and can’t drive anymore. We’re in a predicament of our own making. If this meat is not delivered it’ll have to be put in the freezer but there is no space in there for it.

This is the part we didn’t think about. Still we bag them up in clear plastic bags. The meat is still cold from the ice water bath. It only buys us a little extra time before they have to go on ice. We need a plan and fast!

Neck Bones & Chicken Blood

At 12:30, we have taken the fifty pounds of meat inside the house trying to keep it as cool as possible. We have exactly fifty pounds of meat and none for dinner. I just realized Mom has nothing to cook when she gets home.

Efficiently the fire has been put out with a bucket of water, there’s no going back. I’ll have to explain the shortage in weight. Hopefully our first customer will understand. She is already impressed that teenagers have started running their own backyard business.

Back to the problem, I can’t call a cab or wait…maybe I can. There is one person who won’t say no. I’m sure. We’ll have to pay him from proceeds. Hopefully we won’t have to wait to collect. I’ll have to count on this.

I smell terrible. Peter does too. We are covered in chicken blood. The smell of smoke has even permeated our teeth. I’m finding too much folly here; if anyone sees two idiotic teenagers hailing an on-route cab like this they will call the police immediately. Now we have to factor in a longer than usual shower each. This problem keeps evolving into bigger ones.

Luckily there are two bathrooms so Peter and I shower simultaneously. I don’t even have time to dry my hair and tie it up in a bun. I also need to run and wait at the front gate in case Mr. Bailey is passing by. The wait is short. I hail him and he stops in front of me.

“Fifty pounds of meat in the trunk is heavy for a sedan with passengers Rachel,” he says.

“I know sir but whatever you’re asking I’ll pay it. At stake is fifty pounds of chicken we can’t afford to lose,”

He is thinking about it, but too long for my liking.

“Ok, I’ll do it for you. You’re keeping the business alive and I respect that,” he says.

Yes! He puts the car in reverse and backs into the yard. He even places the fifty pound bag in the trunk himself.

A very satisfied customer has accepted the explanation for the shortage in weight and has paid in full for fifty pounds of chicken meat. At home we finally confess to Dad what we’ve been doing outside all day.

He only smiles in return and says, “So you don’t think I could hear the chickens literally screaming their heads off? Never mind, I’m so proud of you two. I don’t have to worry about you anymore.”

“Hey Pop, you don’t have to worry about anything, we are doing this for you and because of you. It’s our turn now. Now we understand how hard it was for you to do this and still go to work every day. This is just the beginning Sir,” Peter replied, and gave our father a hug.

I can’t help but join in the celebration. I hug him too and tell him, “We will take care of you now and run this farm like never before,”

Mom has no idea. In two hours she will be home. Now that I have learned how to use a knife on a chicken I can at least season the meat for dinner, can’t I?

I use red peppers from the farm, some salt and black pepper, some ground garlic and diced onions. I try to remember Grandma’s white chicken recipe but I don’t have all the skills for that, not yet. I just make a marinade and place the seasoned chicken parts in the fridge staying miles away from the stove.

At 4:30 mom walks through the gate right on time. I hear her open the front door the way she always does.

“Rachel, Peter, where are you?”

We shout back, “In the kitchen,”

She walks in and immediately I sense she knows we are up to something. That look on her face, she is talking to us but her eyes are panning around the kitchen.

“So, what have you two been up to today and why are you in the kitchen?” she asks.

Peter and I look at each other. Now she knows for sure that we were up to something, but we don’t have to say anything because she opens the fridge first and her eyes bulge when she sees chicken parts seasoned to the bone. We are excited.

“You did it, didn’t you?” she asks and hugs us both.

“Yes we did, but I can only describe the first one this way; we killed the first chicken three times.” Peter replies.

She is laughing so hard, I think, because she has envisaged exactly what happened.

“The knife wasn’t sharp enough,” she says.

Upon careful inspection of the chicken parts, our expert mother finds the problem immediately, “You see these short necks on the top of the spine, they should be much longer. Listen, the softest neck bones are right below the chicken’s head. Remember this next time.” She says.

We ran this marathon the wrong way, but we ran it. Now we know how to run it and we will run it. This farm is his legacy. He is very excited. His hands shake so much, but I know it is because he is excited. All I needed to hear is how proud he is. Everyone in our neighborhood calls him Mr. Brown, never by his first name. At home the boys call him Sir. He has never marched in the army and doesn’t believe in war, but he can’t walk anymore. Our world revolves around him now, even if what we are getting is the last of him. This is how precious and rare he is. Behind the fading sparkle in his eyes lies wisdom.