I never planned to become a chicken whisperer. In fact, up until last Saturday, I thought chickens were just confused birds with commitment issues. They can’t fly properly, they don’t bark, they run like they’re always late for a meeting, and worst of all — they stare at you like you owe them money.
It all started when my aunt left me in charge of her “beloved flock” while she attended a wedding in the village. I should’ve known I was in trouble the moment she kissed one of the chickens goodbye.
“These are not just birds,” she warned. “These are my babies.”
Babies? Girl, please. Babies don’t poop on your slippers.
Anyway, she left. I stood in the middle of the compound like a new teacher in front of a class of naughty students. The chickens sized me up. I sized them back. It was quiet. Too quiet.
Then it happened.
One of them — a fat, evil-looking rooster named Colonel Sanders (yes, irony lives here) — came straight at me with the confidence of a man who pays rent.
Flap. Flap. PECK!
Right on my ankle! I yelped, stumbled back, and stepped straight into what I hope was just mud. The rest of the flock started cackling — I swear they were laughing. Chickens have humor. Dark humor.
I wasn’t going to let a bunch of feathery drama queens defeat me. I googled:
“How to control chickens without losing your dignity.”
Google said: “Treat them with respect.”
Respect? Sis, I’m from Mombasa. Respect is earned — not handed out like free WiFi.
So I changed tactics. I brought out a sufuria and banged it like a mad woman, shouting “Mchezo imeisha!” They scattered like gossip in a salon.
From that moment, I was their queen.
They followed me around, gave me space, even stopped pooping on the doorstep. I strutted around like a farm version of Beyoncé. I had found my power. I was… The Chicken Whisperer.
When my aunt came back, she was impressed.
“They’ve never behaved like this! What’s your secret?”
I smiled. “Just a little discipline… and maybe some YouTube chicken psychology.”
She nodded, proudly. “You’re ready to inherit the flock one day.”
Inherit?
No, thank you. I’ve retired. One week with those winged weirdos was enough. I now wake up every morning with a new respect for poultry — and a limp in my left ankle.
Moral of the story:
Sometimes life gives you lemons. Other times, it gives you chickens with attitude. Learn to handle both — and always wear boots.
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