Shimonjero

 

You know those times unasikia ni kama unachizi? Umepanga vitu zako vizuri, from A-Z then everything decides to go tits up kama mende imededi? So recently I was in such a bubble, naona tu Dim. 

Nikasema sitachizi niliona, wacha I go see my hombre, Tommie, pale Kach. It's very peaceful place btw. After the first day, we are beating stories after kumaliza shughuli mbili tatu, nothing major, just enough to feel productive without actually being productive. 

Out of nowhere, Tommie leans in like he’s about to reveal state secrets.

“Btw nilikuwa na mpango na fulani na yule jirani 

nilikuwa nataka tupangane. 

Si tufike hivyo?”

We pull up to Jirani's compound, and the first thing we see? Two cocks. Full chest out. Feathers flying. Pride on the line. These roosters were not playing. This wasn’t a disagreement, this was generational beef. You could tell one of them had been waiting for this moment since childhood. Jamaa sees us and instead of greeting like a normal human being, he goes:

“Eeh Tommie! 

Umefanya vizuri kufika. 

Leo jogoo zangu zimeamua ni UFC.”

Jamaa and his wife chilling outside like it’s a Netflix session on a Sunday afternoon. Only that this wasn’t Netflix. It was Nat Geo: Kach Edition. We gather around like shareholders in a poultry company. The roosters are circling each other with that slow-motion drama. One jumps. The other dodges. There’s dust. There’s betrayal. There’s emotion. 

Then the plot twists. Mid fight, this man casually turns to his wife and says, with zero hesitation:

“Weka maji ichemke.”

I blink. Tommie blinks. The roosters blink (probably). The wife doesn’t even argue. She just stands up like she’s been waiting for this instruction her whole life. That’s when it hits me.This is not a fight. This is an audition for dinner. The loser is not going to the hospital. The loser is going to sufuria to be the meal for the day.

Suddenly the fight becomes intense. Stakes zimepanda. This is no longer pride — this is survival. I’m there whispering motivational speeches in my head. The black one lands a heavy peck. Red one stumbles. Feathers scatter like confetti at a village wedding. Jamaa is narrating like a sports commentator.

“Eeeh! 

Huyo amechoka! 

Huyo ameanza kulegea!”

I swear at some point I felt guilty for watching. It felt like witnessing destiny being decided in real time. The wife is inside now, and I can hear sufuria ikianza kutoa ile sound ya maji almost boiling. 

The tension? Immaculate. 

Finally, one rooster makes a wrong move. Just one. And that was it. The other one delivers the final peck with the confidence of someone who knows supper depends on it. Silence. No movement. Jamaa steps forward like a referee who also doubles as the butcher.

“Baas. 

Huyu ameenda.”

And just like that from warrior to supper. Tommie looks at me and whispers, 

“Hii Kach hakuna mchezo.”

I had accompanied Tommie to discuss mambo fulani with jirani but instead we witnessed a live elimination show. That evening as we sat eating the most suspiciously fresh chicken I’ve ever tasted, I realized something profound. Life in Kach is simple. 

You fight. 

You win. 

Or you become supper.

And honestly? That chicken slapped, it was so delicious and soft.