The long wait finally came to an end,
and everyone in the house suddenly became happy at the same time.
It was Christmas again.That magical season when people you’ve never seen before are allowed to eat from bowls that are normally forbidden. Bowls my mother kept on the wooden divider, wrapped in white cloths she proudly called lace. Bowls so sacred that even my father, the head of the house, never asked to use them on a normal day.
Sometimes I suspected Christmas was not really for us. Because the celebration came with too many rules. They said it was a foreign culture, yet no festival forced unity as Christmas did. Even Santa Claus, who never once showed his face in our compound, still managed to gather everyone.
There was no snow, only harmattan.Dust everywhere. Cold mornings. Dry skin. Shea butter and my mother’s cocoa butter pomade became our Christmas uniform. If you didn’t shine like you were polished with engine oil, it meant you didn’t apply enough; woe betide you if your lips cracked before church.
But in all this, behind our wooden kitchen stood the real victim of Christmas.
A naked-neck chicken, tied like it owed someone money. It walked in small circles, confused but hopeful. I named it ‘Mother for All.’ Not because it cared, but because its soup would soon care for everybody.
That chicken didn’t know that on Christmas, one chicken can feed a whole village. Neighbours would ‘just pass by.’ Uncles would appear without warning. Even people who never greet you all year would suddenly remember your house. And Mother for All would perform the miracle, turning into soup, stew, and stories.
Mother for All was not an ordinary chicken.It was a naked-neck hen built like a village champion. Strong. Fearless. A survivor. Hawks knew better than to try it. Parasites never succeeded. Not a single egg or chick was lost under its watch. In my head, Mother for All was an investment. A whole poultry project disguised as one chicken.
The day before the 25th, I fed it leftover rice and stood beside it, staring into its reddish-brown eyes like we were discussing business. I told myself, if we don’t kill this chicken, it will give us 150 eggs in one year. Eggs we would fry, boil, sell, and even trade like currency. I was already rich in my imagination.
Then reality entered the compound.
My father, Agya Apau, and my elder brother, Kofi, returned from the market carrying a brand-new knife for Mother for All.At that moment, the chicken sensed danger. I swear it did. Its eyes changed. Fear has a language.
Kofi walked over and started playing with Mother for All the same way he played with all previous Christmas chickens by kicking it like a football in training. But this one was different. I had never felt connected to a chicken like this before. My heart was beating for poultry.
Mother for All tried to escape, but the rope tied around its neck reminded it that hope was expensive. Kofi laughed and said, ‘Tomorrow we will kill you.’
Then he walked away smiling, like someone who had already eaten.
Poor Mother for All.Your only crime was being delicious.
I went to my mother, Mama Adwoa, and asked softly, ‘Why can’t we keep this one as a pet?’She looked at me and replied, ‘Don’t talk senselessly. Have you seen anyone in this town petting a chicken?’That was the end of my dreams. I walked away with my head down and my heart broken.
That night, Christmas carols filled the air as we sat around my father’s MP3 player with a radio receiver. Kofi continued making jokes about how Mother for All would die tomorrow. I laughed outside but cried inside like a true Ghanaian child.
Morning came. The dew disappeared. The sun came out like a blessing.Then suddenly chaos.
Kofi screamed, ‘The naked-neck hen has escaped!’My father and brother took off after Mother for All like it was a police chase. Fast and furious village edition.
I ran straight to the fence where the chicken had been tied. The rope was there. Empty. Cut clean.Yes. It was me.The mastermind. The freedom fighter. The poultry liberator.
I stood there proud, laughing quietly, until my mother appeared and shouted, “Hurry and join your brother and father!”I sprinted off. But I wasn’t running to catch Mother for All. I was running to celebrate its freedom.
That Christmas, we chased a chicken we never caught.And for once in my life, I chose emancipation over soup.
This is my 18th Christmas now. I am called Aku, and I have never seen Mother for All again. I’ve seen many naked-neck chickens that look like it at school, in big markets, but none carried the bond we shared.
So I kept this secret between me and my diary.I titled it:
A Christmas Diary: A Chicken’s Problem.
Mill Francis is a screenwriter and emerging film director from Kumasi in the Ashanti Region, with a growing portfolio of more than 14 films, TV series, and short films. He began writing at age 13 for online platforms and made his professional debut in 2024 with the short film What Do Girls Want (African Youth in Love).
In 2025, he was a finalist at the Accra Indie Film Fest Talent Connect and was recognized as one of Ghana’s leading emerging young filmmakers. He is a participant in the MultiChoice Talent Factory and a Level 400 student at a UCC‑affiliated college, actively collaborating with international filmmakers and open to creative partnerships.
Instagram @Mill_Francis_gh