Eggs are never on my shopping list in Rwanda. But they’re almost always on the breakfast plate. This is because living far from the cramped confines of a typical New York City apartment, I’ve become a bit of a chicken farmer.
It began with the two turkeys, both female, that my co-fellow Oda and I got in November to prepare an American-style Thanksgiving feast for our friends. The American turkeys I was used to, pumped full of hormones, are enough to feed twenty, so I was surprised when I held the two ladies in my arms and realized they’d never feed all our guests. So back to the market we went to buy two more turkeys, male this time and large enough to satisfy.
We greatly enjoyed watching as the two males postured and danced for the ladies, who mostly ran away and wanted no part in this mating ritual. They didn’t have to endure the males’ affections for long, for our two guys were slaughtered that evening, leaving the ladies in peace. Since the males were already large and juicy, we left the ladies to fatten up for the December holidays.
The house I share in Kigali with my co-fellow, Oda, provides ample space to spend time outdoors, soak up some sun, and rear a small collection of animals. Over the months, we grew fond of watching our turkeys graze in the yard and make their funny noises. We named them Mada and Gascar, and they officially joined the household as pets. Our roommate’s dog, Kenya, enjoyed chasing them around, and all was harmonious.
Since we had turkeys, we thought we might as well add some chickens to the mix to fix our morning meals. Those two we named Tanza and Nia, and after a period of sheer terror of their new surroundings, they buddied up to Mada and Gascar and settled into their free-range lives.
Soon enough, a skinny two-week old kitten showed up at our gate, barely alive. We brought him into the house, bottle-fed him back to life, and delighted as he became best friends with Kenya the dog. We named him Chicken Wing, because after three days in a near-coma and a grim prognosis from the vet, he suddenly awoke with a voracious appetite, stole a chicken wing from one of our plates, and ran off growling.
At one point, a goat appeared in our yard. He had jumped over the fence separating our compound from the neighbor’s and began bleating. He was friendly and confident, and I fell in love. Kenya the dog, however, felt differently. I bought the goat from the neighbor hoping they’d warm up to each other, but Kenya thought it was a brochette and was very perturbed to discover his food walked. Kenya just didn’t know what to make of it, and was in a complete frenzy. They made circles around the house chasing each other, and the barking and bleating eventually drove us to return the goat to the neighbor. I’m always happy for a new pet in our lively house, but I eventually had to concede that this was, in fact, a house and not a ranch.
