Hen attack that left me terrified

While walking home one morning, after taking my child to school, I was viciously assaulted by a hen. For absolutely no reason. All I did, while I passed by minding my own business for once, was throw her and the crowd of chicks chirping at her feet a disinterested glance.

However, somehow, the chicken felt that I was a threat, which is understandable because I usually devour her people, and she slowly stood up while croaking what seemed to be “don’t try me, Wanja” under her breath, all the while maintaining eye contact.

Utterly unprovoked, she immediately puffed up, became one size bigger, and started charging towards me, clucking dangerously. Since I was unprepared for an avian attack, I panicked a little as I frantically deliberated within myself whether to flee, or stand up for myself and fight my blood-thirsty assailant.

It was a difficult decision because as much as I cannot take a sudden, unfair beating from poultry, I’m against solving problems with violence. But this was an exception. I had to defend myself.

In that moment, as the fowl lunged towards me, squawking intimidatingly, I played with the idea of catching it and preparing it for lunch, but even though I badly needed the protein, my sparkling personality couldn’t let me make the chicks motherless. Plus, I couldn’t eat anyway.

Two days earlier, I had given myself burn injuries in the mouth after taking a gluttonous sip on porridge that I had assumed wasn’t hot. You know how it is. Hunger impairs your judgment and makes you think that the food or drink you’re about to consume isn’t that hot.

So you take a huge bite on that potato, or make a greedy sip on that porridge, and you sustain third degree burns in your mouth that make you unable to eat anything remotely warm, or anything with chili, or anything hard for several days, and you’re forced to subsist on pawpaw smoothies like a weaned baby as your mouth recuperates from those self-inflicted burns.

Therefore, having the bird for lunch would not be the perfect combat strategy, because my mouth injuries would make it difficult for me to enjoy the meat. So I considered giving the daring bird one, swift, Bruce Lee-like kick, that would hurl it out of sight, ending the unknown misunderstanding between us. I contemplated dealing the hen a stunning knockout blow, a merciless onslaught on its jugular, one that would render it paralysed for weeks.

I thought about grabbing a stick and using it to whack away my feathery opponent, ensuring that I cause the most damage to its vital organs. If that wouldn’t work, I decided, I would jump on that mother hen, screaming, and screeching and chanting war songs dramatically, then hook my arm around her neck and employ a ruthless chokehold tactic that would compel her to cackle and gurgle, weakly, in surrender.

But before I was done planning for battle, the hateful chicken launched its first attack; a powerful, unexpected peck at the calf of my leg, deep and painful and full of antipathy. Without giving me an opportunity to retaliate, my attacker then flew onto my back, and, with wings furiously flapping at my neck, and claws painfully digging and scratching into my spine, it vengefully drove its beak inside my shoulder, multiple times, almost puncturing an important vein at the side of my neck. Even the chicks were extremely horrified by the amount of bloodshed their mother was causing, and they scampered off under some bushes, traumatised and unsure about their future in the family.

It is at this point I realised that not even Chuck Norris could win that fight. And so, with that clarity, I decided to, right away, drop all my self-defence plans and run for my life.

Frightening noises

Screaming for help, with arms flailing in the air, and wailing in cowardice and sheer terror while calling out for my mother, I blindly ran from my foe, accidentally taking an intersection that led me farther from home, instead of the opposite.

With the chicken hot on my heels and making frightening noises that seemed to get closer and closer, I ran like never before. I acquired supersonic speed, and fled in a fashion that would put the cheetah to shame, and dethrone Usain Bolt as the 100-metre sprint champion.

I thundered along the way, the kitambaa covering my shaggy hair falling off, and knocking over old people and children, leaving a trail of those vulnerable people, fallen and bruised, in my flight. For a moment, as I breathlessly raced under the sweltering morning sun, I felt inspired to join the Kenyan athletics team and represent my country on the track during the next Olympic Games as my talent was evident.

The people who were quick enough to jump out of my way to avoid a collision would look at me with much concern and worry. I heard one person, while I ran past, asking their companion why I was running. In response, I screamed “NI KUKUUU!” in a pitiful, quivering cry.

I then looked behind to point at the crazy hen, for the person who asked to see. Wondering why they didn’t run from the chicken as well, I slowed down and looked behind again. There was no chicken. I stopped running, took several seconds to catch my breath, bending, panting, hands on my knees. I looked again. There was no chicken.

 I only saw the puzzled faces of the people I sped past. Without my knowledge, mama hen had gotten bored of terrorising me, and she had already gone back to her chicks, probably scratching the ground for food and living on as though she hadn’t thoroughly humiliated me seconds ago. I had ran for several metres, shouting madly, without the hen in tow, embarrassing myself and making people speculate on my mental health.

It was a disgracing walk home as I shuddered from my newfound fear of hens.