June 10th

So my last day in the village was much like a going away party in the states… kind of. Typical of good American neighbors, the Nyansonso villagers brought over food the only slight difference was that this food was still breathing. As a gift or thank you I received two village chickens. One of those chickens met an immediate death; the other is still roaming around Nyansonso happily pecking and scavenging. I could not bring myself murder or bear witness to the murder of two animals in one day or so that’s what I tell myself; however I think it has more to do with the inability to consume that much village chicken. Only one who has eaten village chicken can fully understand the effort that goes into consuming it. I am not just taking about the throat slitting, the feather plucking, or the butchering, I am talking about that actual consumption of the chicken meat. It is kind of like chewing on leather with a lot less flavor. The flavor can be mildly improved by heaps of salt that would put a Chinese food restaurant to shame; unfortunately not much can be done about the toughness. You will undoubtedly end up with lock jaw.

The ritual of killing a chicken in the village is mildly heart breaking and poetic. Having received the first chicken (the one that gave its life for my dinner) I was required to hold it for about thirty minutes. The time is not all that important but act of holding the chicken, feeling it heartbeat, its breath, and its movement and the chicken feeling my heartbeat and breath was. This act was to demonstrate the appreciation of life and the importance of the chicken’s death. In a way I was making friends with my chicken to show it why it had to die. Beautiful in theory, heart breaking in reality. I walked around with this chicken in my arms and then I had to cut its head off; but the chicken was thanked.

I walked around Ellen’s compound trying to take as many mental and emotional pictures that I could. I repeatedly reminded myself that in all likelihood I was never going to return to this place, and I was never going to see these beautiful people again. Try as I might, I could not make the reality of my departure sink in. That is quite typical of my emotional consciousness; it won’t allow me to feel what I know is reality and then like it has realized that it is late for the party will open the flood gates and I will feel everything all at once. Sitting on the side of the road with my bags packed I patiently waited for my last hitch out of Nyansonso and patiently for the feeling of good-bye. The children passing asked where I was going and when I would be back; everyone had trouble comprehending the permanence of my departure, even Ellen. I did not feel the true pain and heaviness of the good bye until I climbed into the back of the pick-up truck and watched as the village slowly disappeared from view. I suppose that it was a good way to say good-bye to Nyansonso, no prolonged hugs or draw out good byes; I simply climbed in the back of a truck and waved.