(Reproduced from Campost, No 212, April 6-13, 1994, p.4).
My good friend Andy ‘Young’ went to one of our favourite chicken parlours in downtown Akwa, Douala, the other day and found the place in turmoil. That in itself is nothing strange for that place. When you have a chicken parlour noted for its unrivalled bevy of ladies, whose see-through dresses and bra-free chests leave little else to the imagination, it is not unusual for the rowdy crowd of chest-thumping young men to end up in violent fisticuffs. It takes just one of those ladies to ignore the persistent advances of a Don Juan in heat, and smile to another, and the ignored fellow does not hesitate to settle the matter with his rival with fist punches!
So when Andy and a friend walked in, they were not astonished by the uproar on the floor. What shocked Andy, though, was that a man he had always known as meek and humble in his ways was almost strangling a young girl and shouting at the top of his voice: “Let go of my gizzard! Spit it out, you bitch!”
Plumb, young and juicy!
Andy and his friend had great difficulty unclasping the man’s fingers from the poor girl’s throat, and when at last they succeeded, the infuriated fellow stormed out of the place. That was when Andy learnt the source of the man’s fury that had almost driven him to commit murder.
The gentleman in question had invited a friend to share a baked chicken with him—at his expense, of course. The friend had accepted the invitation, but showed up not alone: he was accompanied by one of his latest conquests, whom he paraded about like a trophy. This one was even younger than his youngest granddaughter! Don’t we retired, white-haired sugar daddies love them plump, young, and juicy?
As the friends sat in the dimly lit room, sipping cold drinks and chatting idly, their minds lingered on the sweet, enticing smell of chicken wafting in from the charcoal grill outside. Their mouths were already watering when the chicken, beautifully baked to a golden brown, was finally set before them.
Almost immediately, the young girl picked up a fork and began exploring among the sliced chicken, pushing aside the breasts and thighs. Intrigued, her boyfriend and his friend paused their conversation and watched expectantly, thinking she was about to serve them. After all, are women not there to serve men and warm their beds for them? (Andy dixit).
Impatience began to creep across the men’s faces as they silently wondered what she was doing instead of serving them. Then at last, she seemed to have found what she was searching for. There it was, snugly tucked away between the thighs of the chicken. The two friends watched keenly as she deftly sent her fork in and “forked” the gizzard hiding between the thighs.
She ate that symbol of manhood!
As the two men watched, intrigued, each wondering which of them she was about to honour with that symbol of manhood, the girl lifted the gizzard with her fork and playfully dangled it before their eyes. Ah, the gizzard! That precious part of the chicken without which a chicken is scarcely a chicken! That sacred morsel no woman should ever taste, or even dream of tasting, even in the privacy of her kitchen, unseen by any other! Yes—that was what the young lady now held at the end of her fork. The two men gazed at it, transfixed, as it hung there so tantalisingly inviting and irresistible.
Then she looked at the two anxious, mouth-watering old men with a provocative smile, revelling in the eagerness that burned in their eyes, knowing full well that each was asking himself: Which of us will she honour?
And then—the strangest thing happened! Instead of placing that gizzard with religious care and respect on one of the men’s plates, she—oh, abomination of abominations!—tossed it straight into her own mouth; just like that! Yes, she did! Kai wallahi! Kefereh! Dangdurunwa! Abuiai!!
Never, since the gizzard entered the history of gastronomy in our land as the sole preserve of men—a true symbol of manhood and virility—had such a sacrilege been recorded! An old man in my village once told me that when a baby is born and you lift it up and find something dangling between its thighs, that is the one destined to inherit the gizzard later in life. Yes—that is how serious this gizzard business is!
Dream or reality?!
And how could that badly bred girl have the audacity to throw it into her insolent mouth, framed by a pair of obscenely reddish lips smeared with that vile-looking lipstick! Were the two men merely victims of some grotesque dream? Or had they really witnessed that girl eat a gizzard? The friend, upon whom lay the heavy burden of settling the bill for the evening, was visibly rubbing his eyes, as though waking from a particularly cruel nightmare. Had he truly seen his friend’s girlfriend devour a gizzard? Did that saucy girl’s mother never teach her that no woman should ever so much as taste one? Had the country truly sunk so low that women could now eat the gizzard with impunity?
A murderous rage!
That was when he flew into a murderous rage and lunged for the poor girl’s throat. When Andy and his friends finally prised her free from the furious man’s iron-fisted grip, he stormed out of the parlour—but not before spitting out something particularly nasty and unprintable about the girl’s behind, which, for some strange reason, he imagined had to be especially black in colour; as though a black behind were anything to be ashamed of! Ah, the things some men in this triangle of ours can come up with!
The man whose girlfriend had committed the unprecedented abomination of eating a gizzard was left behind to settle the bill for the chicken—chicken none of them had even had the chance to taste. “If you don’t pay, you’re not leaving this place!” was the ultimatum the restaurant staff gave the poor fellow. He coughed up the cash and bolted, without so much as a backward glance at his girlfriend, who came running after him, crying: “Daddy, wait small no! Daddy, I beg, wait no!” Andy and his friend could still hear their violent quarrel echoing into the night.
Gizzard-defender, well done!!
When Andy told me the story, I heartily applauded that gentleman’s valiant defence of men’s exclusive right to the gizzard. The way some women are now trampling upon age-old traditions in this country is nothing short of alarming. A plague upon the homes of men—particularly traditional titleholders—who allow women to infringe upon that exclusive, judicious, time-honoured male right to the gizzard!
