The Real African Queen

Today, a chicken. Sashaying down the path between the houses ahead of me as if the path was forged by big strong arms only for her. Feathers ruffling in the breeze like many a fine silk petticoat. The queen of the barrio is she. Always a step ahead while underfoot, she wanders the neighborhood just as she pleases, whenever she pleases, thank you very much. We are still not sure, with so many like her ruling the roost of this African neighborhood, how their alleged owners tell them apart or track them down. Her prince in waiting, that rubber necked, ugly as sin rooster, competes for her affection in a cacophonous symphony along with all the other many roosters in town, promptly every morning. His personally selected podium? Rudely, Right under our open screen windows at dawn. She just clucks with unaffected indifference and goes about her royal beaky business. And here she is now ahead of me, left to survey her kingdom when all her serf humans have retreated from the midday heat indoors. She pretends not to hear me behind her but eyes me distainfully with one beady eye.  After concluding that I’m not really anything to cluck at, Baroness of Bagamoyo, the Lady of the Lane, continues on her way down the dirt road swaying her hips, while the huge banana tree leaves flutter her as she passes, like the fans of ladies in waiting. She rounds the bend and I just have to laugh out loud.