The Cock

Julie and her counterpart live across the road from one another in a little village with a big name. Seokomelabagwe, is so small in fact that most people in the nearby villages don’t know it exists. When we first moved to our respective villages, I feared I’d never learn the long cumbersome name. I wouldn’t know what to tell a kombi driver when s/he asked my destination. My village almost looks industrial. Her village looks like Africa. On paper, Seokomelabagwe has a population of 300. In reality it has a population of 200, at the most. Julie’s counterpart has a rooster. She loves this bird and refuses to kill him. She said several people have suggested it, but she will not. “I love my cock” she says. “He tells time.” If ever people and their pets look and act alike, this is it. Julie’s counterpart is a swollen and elderly woman with thick wrists and ankles, high blood pressure, an even higher sodium intake, and diabetes. She’s nice albeit maternally bossy and inclined to forget things. Might I add that she’s a prominent woman and nothing short of a local celebrity. Her rooster is also fat and old. I can’t vouch for the cock’s memory or his celebrity but I do know that his legs are bad. He waddles—walking is a chore—and after so many steps, he tilts over and falls. Every time he falls I’m afraid he’s literally dropped dead but then he struggles to get his balance and slowly maneuvers himself up again. Sometimes he just stays seated, roosting on his bad legs. It’s any day now for the bird but Julie’s counterpart seems to genuinely care about her rooster. When she eats lunch on the patio, she deliberately spills rice and beans for him and he pecks at her feet. Its cute. Bizarre, but heartwarming. Since he’s effectively charmed his way out of the pot, I’d classify him as pet except that I hadn’t seen him in a while. I asked Julie how the cock was. She said she hadn’t seen him in a while either. As soon as I thought he’d transcended his original role as livestock, he fell right into the pot.