Nkukhu

South Africans love chicken – not as pets, but as succulent, greasy and tender protein. Nkukhu don’t die of natural causes anywhere in South Africa, be it a village, township or millionaires’ mile in Sandton. Fried chicken outlets don’t go bankrupt in Mzansi. Chickens, though, are “liquidated” en masse. Bird ‘flu stands little chance to get a grip on cluckers before they are wolfed down by “Seffricans” of every hue and social class.

In the great halls of commerce in Egoli, a meeting is not a “meeting” without gnashers tucking into the ever-present array of edibles. As a nation, South Africans love to eat and live to eat. Board meetings, shareholders’ meetings, staff meetings, even on-line meetings are opportunities to devour culinary delights of one type or another. On-line, the participants have no qualms about chewing and swallowing (with the mike turned off for a nod to decorum) and gulping down copious amounts of strongly brewed filter (or plunger) coffee. Buffet tables in the boardrooms heave under the weight of savoury and sweet in abundance – and, ALWAYS, allllwaays, the ever present Nkukhu – duly dismembered and fried to perfection - dripping with grease. All present eagerly look forward to swarming the tables upon adjournment, and consumption of the array of delicacies takes place in a fraction of the duration of the meeting. The numbers present don’t determine the quantity of leftovers – there usually are none after eager mouths have begun the process of recycling the contents of the platters. After Barakat, Padkos and Doggy Bags have been duly filled, mere morsels make it through to clean-up and dishwashing. Crumbs and bones alone survive until they hit the dumpster.

In rural villages chickens are free range. They scavenge for the tiniest scraps of food – the odd mielie kernel that has been dislodged from the cob, a discarded bread crust, crumbs and even tidbits of rancid meat that has not quite made it from a plate to a bin. They are the world’s consummate “vacuum cleaners” ideally adapted to picking up the tiniest fragments of food that have made their way to the ground. Their claws scratch through dirt with uncanny dexterity to unearth edible grains, large or small. Ever alert, they dart between huts in a constant struggle to keep out of the three-legged iron pots that render chicken stews and mealiepap for communal consumption. Notoriously difficult to catch, these peckers are hunted down by scores of youngsters that set after their selected bird. From the moment it is grasped to the moment its neck is wrung takes a nanosecond. Feathers fly and dismemberment by the cooking mamas is conducted with swift efficiency. Thus a stew of scrawny village chicken is concocted and universally enjoyed by the clucking and chattering diners – men on one side, women separately.  

Township fare is rather more eclectic. The diet of the chickens is somewhat dubious – the grains scavenged contain both remnants of green vegetation, meat, bits of poultry for the undiscerning chickens that are oblivious to the cannibalistic nature of their cuisine, and dirt of less salubrious origin. In the townships poultry is relentlessly pursued and decapitated in a swift move. The headless fowl rapidly zig-zags ahead of its pursuers until it expires and renders its final twitches before it is defeathered, spatchcocked, roasted and devoured.

In Mzansi it is not unusual to encounter a fully laden diesel bus, belching out smoke and leaning perilously askew its twisted chassis, topped with luggage and produce. Tied to the roof rack would be a host of live village chickens kept fresh on the arduous journey to the city. Flapping wildly in the wind and exposed to the elements, ne’er a thought is given to the cruel discomfort of the feathered clutch of livestock. To be fair to the plight of other creatures, goats, sheep and even the odd bovine spend their final hours on this earth in a similarly tragic fate. The conclusion of the journey for them all is the cast iron pot at the end of the bleak cloud of smoke.

The chattering classes and the urban middle class are not exempt from Mzansi’s inhumanity to creatures great and small. The dining tables of the elite are adorned with cheerful decorations and neat platters of exquisitely carved poultry – drumsticks seasoned and roasted, chicken wings transformed into succulent buffalo wings dripping with barbecue sauce, and white meat in tender slivers. The only discernable difference in the chasm between the village, township and the suburbs is the distance between the diner and the blood. The chattering classes opt to leave the cruelty and messy, bloody slaughter to minions out of sight. The chickens have been debeaked, force fed to bursting point, injected with all manner of steroids and growth hormones before being summarily dispatched in mechanical processing machines – and then adorn the serving dishes in elegant style. The gory bits are performed out of sight, rendering the poultry fit for consumption by the squeamish elite. Out of sight …..

The psychology of language sanitizes the process of Mzansi’s obsession with Nkukhu. The terms applied to the cuts of meat derived from fowls seem to wash away the grim reality of the pitiful lives of the creatures: buffalo wings, the parson’s nose, drumsticks, chicken breast…and for those who cast their fortunes to fate, the wishbone.

Despite our vague perception of the aforementioned process in getting the bird to the plate, the aroma of roasted chicken wafting past our nostrils conjures up an irresistible urge to tuck in and devour these pitiful creatures. It is a bridge too far to ask South Africans to dispense with their taste for a well roasted and splendidly seasoned, succulent chicken. Chickens taste so good! 

Our conscience is assuaged by the thought that chickens would be extinct were they not such a tasty source of protein. We consider ourselves to be doing this entire race of fowls a monumental favour by eating them. Our tastebuds are ultimately the sole reason for their existence.

©Paul M Haupt

Image credit: GALVmed