I always feel sorry for Uganda’s chicken population every time I go home for a visit. After my customary two-week hideout at Backpackers in Kampala, my mom starts shoving me around the country to visit what seems like an endless array of relatives, friends, and random acquaintances. And almost always, an suspecting chicken ends up being the unlucky guest at the dinner table. I think they are organizing against me. They’ve probably paid off some cock of a hit man and he’s probably in training right now prepping his big mission to off me – dusting up on his deadly wishbone attack.
But it’s not my fault, I can’t help it that chicken is the traditional meal you feed a special guests in Uganda. I can’t help it that I am a Bikundi, and thus cursed, blessed with a bazillion relatives (that somehow know who I am), and are spreading like wild fire across Uganda and Kenya. Look, it’s not my fault that scores of chickens are unceremoniously plucked without their permission because of my presence in the country.
Call off the hit man!
And it’s not my fault you taste so damned good… with matooke, or rice, or potatoes….
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Oh, that is so sad! So sad but so sweet. Maybe you should become vegetarian. But as you said it all tastes so good too. Sounds like a pity party for you to brag about your specialness!!! LOL
Hey! THis is MY blog after all. Self-righteous bragging is included, free of charge!
Yes, it is your blog! At least you are updating it now and posting some pictures! Keep it up, the stories are interesting too!
nice work, man
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