PROLOGUE:
My name is Henrietta, and I am about to die. Not in the philosophical sense that we are all dying from the moment we are born. Not metaphorically, in the way people say ‘I'm dying’ when they mean ‘I'm slightly embarrassed.’
No. I mean, I am going to die. Today. December 24th, 2025. Christmas Eve. I know this because Auntie Grace just pointed at me and said, ‘That one. The fat one. She will do nicely for tomorrow's soup.’
The fat one?
Madam, I am not fat. I am cultivated. Thick in the right places. I am well-maintained. I am the result of six months of strategic corn consumption and a sedentary lifestyle. There is a difference. But I digress. The point is: I am going to be a Christmas dinner, and I have approximately eight hours to come to terms with my mortality.
Spoiler alert: I am not handling it well.
ACT ONE:
THE FAMILY (OR, AS I CALL THEM, THE MURDER SQUAD)
Let me introduce you to the cast of characters who will be responsible for my untimely demise:
PAPA KWABENA - The patriarch. Sixty-two-year-old retired teacher, currently sitting under the mango tree, reading yesterday's newspaper for the third time because he refuses to admit he needs glasses. He will not participate in my execution directly, but he will eat me enthusiastically while pontificating about ‘the good old days when chickens tasted like chickens.’ Sir, I am RIGHT HERE.
MAMA ABENA - The matriarch. Fifty-eight, formidable, the real power in this household. She has been sharpening the knife for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes. How sharp does a knife need to be? This feels personal, Mama Abena. This feels excessive.
AUNTIE GRACE - Mama Abena's sister. Fifty-five, loud, wears church hats even when she's not going to church. She is the one who selected me. She looked at all eight of us chickens in this compound and said, ‘That one.’ As if she were choosing a mango at the market. Madam, I have feelings. I have dreams. I was going to lay so many eggs.
UNCLE KOFI - Papa Kwabena's brother. Sixty, smells like akpeteshie, currently arguing with Papa about politics despite neither of them knowing what they're talking about. He will be in charge of the hot water that will de-feather me. I hope he spills it on himself and accidentally catches fire. (I'm allowed to be bitter. I'M ABOUT TO DIE.)
KWAME - The eldest son. Thirty-two, works in Accra, came home for Christmas with his wife and three children. He will pretend to be too sophisticated for village chicken slaughter, but he will watch from the window with morbid fascination. I see you, Kwame. I know you want to witness this.
EFUA - Kwame's wife. Thirty, pregnant with number four, constantly tired. She keeps saying, ‘Please make sure the chicken is well-cooked. I can't eat anything undercooked in my condition.’ MADAM. In your condition? What about my condition? I am about to be murdered.
AMA, KOFI JR., and ABENA - The grandchildren. Ages eight, six, and four, respectively. They have been chasing me around the compound all morning, yelling ‘CHICKEN! CHICKEN! CHICKEN!’ like it's a game. Children are sociopaths. I said what I said.
YAA - The youngest daughter. Twenty-three, university graduate, came home with her boyfriend to introduce him to the family. She's a vegetarian now. She discovered vegetarianism three months ago at the University of Ghana and has been insufferable about it ever since. She is my only hope.
KWASI - Yaa's boyfriend. Twenty-five, nervous, sweating despite the harmattan. He's from America and has never seen a chicken killed before. He will faint. I can already tell. This man has ‘fainter’ written all over his face.
There are also approximately fifteen other relatives, neighbors, and church members who have shown up because this is Ghana, and everyone is invited on Christmas. They will all eat me while saying, ‘Chicken is so fresh and delicious! Not like that frozen thing from the cold store!’
Because I would have been alive in the morning. That's why. I WAS LIVING.
ACT TWO:
THE PREPARATION (OR, MY LAST HOURS ON EARTH)
Hours before the slaughter, Auntie Grace is scattering corn. This is unusual. We normally get corn once a day, in the evening. But here she is, scattering premium corn like we're royalty.
‘Eat well, chickens!’ she calls cheerfully. This is when I should have known. This is the equivalent of a condemned prisoner's last meal. But I am a chicken, and corn is corn, and I eat like there's no tomorrow. Which, to be fair, there isn't. Mama Abena comes out with a basin of water. She's cleaning the outside cooking area. The big aluminum pots are brought out. The firewood is stacked high. The grinding stone is washed.
I watch all this from my corner of the compound and think: Surely this is not for me. Surely they're cooking something else. Surely I am overreacting.
Narrator voice: She was not overreacting.
9:45 AM - Uncle Kofi starts boiling water in the big pot. GALLONS of water. BOILING water.
‘Why are you boiling so much water?’ I hear Papa Kwabena ask.
‘For the chicken,’ Uncle Kofi replies casually. CASUALLY. Like he's not describing my execution method.
‘Ah, which chicken?’
‘The fat one. The one Sister Grace chose.’
THE FAT ONE. I am going to haunt this family. I don't know how chicken ghosts work, but I will figure it out, and I will haunt them.
Yaa, my vegetarian saviour, emerges from the house. I run to her. I do my best chicken run, which admittedly is not very dignified, but desperate times call for desperate measures.
‘Yaa!" I want to scream. ‘YAA! SAVE ME! YOU DON'T EAT MEAT! EXPLAIN TO THEM THAT I AM A SENTIENT BEING WITH RIGHTS!’
She looks at me. Makes eye contact. I think this is it. This is the moment she realizes we are kindred spirits, two beings who understand that life is sacred. She bends down. I hold my breath (do chickens hold breath? I'm doing it anyway).
She says, ‘You're so fat. Akoko obolo, you'll make a nice soup.’
Then she pats my head and walks away.
BETRAYAL.
VEGETARIAN BETRAYAL IS THE WORST KIND OF BETRAYAL.
11:00 AM - The children start chasing me again. But this time it's different. This time they're trying to catch me ‘for practice,’ they say. Ama, the eight-year-old, corners me near the water drum.
‘I'm going to help Grandma catch the chicken!’ she announces proudly.
‘No, I will catch it!’ Kofi argues.
‘I want to hold it,’ little Abena screams.
They're fighting over who gets to participate in my murder.
I escape through a hole in the fence and hide behind the outdoor bathroom. It smells terrible back here, but it's safe. Safety > dignity.
At Lunchtime, the family eats banku and okra stew. I emerge from my hiding spot because I am hungry and also because I forgot I was hiding. Auntie Grace sees me immediately.
‘Ah! There she is! I've been looking for you!’
Uncle Kofi sits not so far from Auntie Grace, gulping down a bottle of Star like water. This is not unusual. Uncle Kofi is always drinking. But today his drinking feels more ominous. This man is going to be handling boiling water while intoxicated. This is a health and safety violation.
2:00 PM- Papa Kwabena calls a family meeting under the mango tree. I creep closer to eavesdrop.
‘Tomorrow is Christmas,’ he begins, like anyone has forgotten.
‘Yes, Papa,’ the family choruses.
‘We must prepare well. The chicken must be killed and cleaned today so Mama can start cooking early tomorrow morning.’
THE CHICKEN. He says it like I'm an object. Like I'm a thing. Sir, I have been living in your compound for six months. I have seen you in your underwear. We are practically family.
‘Who will kill it?’ Kwame asks.
There is Silence.
‘I thought you would do it,’ Papa says to Kwame.
‘Me? Papa, I've forgotten how. It's been years.’
‘Then Kofi will do it,’ Papa says, gesturing to Uncle Kofi.
Uncle Kofi looks up from his lager. Fifth bottle already? ‘I will hold it. But somebody else must cut.’
‘I can do it,’ Auntie Grace volunteers.
‘You?’ Mama Abena scoffs. ‘Last time you killed a chicken, it ran around headless for five minutes and traumatized the children.’
‘IT WAS ONE TIME.’
This is both horrifying and slightly encouraging. Maybe I'll survive this through sheer incompetence? Maybe they'll mess up, and I'll escape?
Mama Abena announces, ‘I will do it myself. I've been killing chickens since before most of you were born. I am wondering why this is even a debate.’
This is not good news for me.
Mama Abena is COMPETENT. Mama Abena is EXPERIENCED. Mama Abena was sharpening that knife like she had a personal vendetta against poultry, against me.
Kwasi, the boyfriend, makes his first mistake. He asks: ‘Do you... Do you have to kill the chicken here? Can't you buy one already... prepared?’
The family stares at him like he's suggested celebrating Christmas in July.
‘Already prepared??’ Auntie Grace repeats, her voice dripping with disdain. ‘You want us to eat frozen chicken? On Christmas??’
‘That is not chicken,’ Papa Kwabena adds. ‘That is rubber from America, chemicals.’
‘Our chicken is fresh,’ Mama Abena says proudly. ‘We know what she's been eating. We know she's healthy.’
I AM HEALTHY. Maybe too healthy. Maybe if I'd been sicker, they would have spared me?
Kwasi looks queasy. ‘I just thought... maybe…’
‘You white boys,’ Uncle Kofi chuckles and adds, in between slurs, ‘You don't know where food comes from anymore.’
I AM NOT FOOD. I AM HENRIETTA !!
***
5:00 PM - The sun is beginning its descent. Golden light filters through the mango tree. It's beautiful. It's also my last sunset, which makes it substantially less beautiful.
I contemplate making a run for it. But where would I go? The compound gate is locked. The fence has holes, but they lead to other compounds where other fowl are probably being killed for Christmas. It's a massacre out here. It's genocide.
Mama Abena stands up, dusts off her cloth, and announces: ‘It's time.’
It's TIME? It's time, like she put it on her schedule? Like it's an appointment? 2:30 - dentist. 5:30 - murder innocent chicken.
The family begins to gather. This is apparently a SPECTATOR SPORT.
Uncle Kofi picks up the basin for my blood.
Auntie Grace starts giving directions: ‘Somebody hold the legs. Somebody hold the wings. Make sure the head is extended…’
SHE'S GIVING INSTRUCTIONS LIKE THIS IS A COOKING SHOW.
They start moving toward me. Slowly. Like I'm a wild animal. (I AM a wild animal, technically, but that's beside the point.)
I back into the corner. This is it. This is the end.
Yaa, the vegetarian bitch is watching from the window, eating a banana. The betrayal runs deep.
Uncle Kofi reaches for me.
ACT THREE:
THE GREAT ESCAPE
I panic. In my panic, I do the only thing a chicken can do: I flap wildly, scream (yes, chickens scream), and release my bowels. The bowel release is strategic. It lands directly on Uncle Kofi's hand.
"Jesus Christ! " he yells, dropping me.
‘DON'T BLASPHEME!’ Auntie Grace shouts.
‘THE CHICKEN SHIT ON ME!’
‘It's just chicken poop!’ Mama Abena says. ‘Catch it again!’
But I'm already running. Full speed. Maximum chicken velocity. I am a BLUR of feathers and fear.
I run past Papa Kwabena, who tries to grab me and misses.
I run past the children, who scream with delight like this is entertainment.
I run past the cooking pots, past the firewood, past the basin of doom.
Kwasi, the boyfriend, makes a heroic attempt to catch me. He lunges. He misses. He falls face-first into the dirt.
‘CATCH THE CHICKEN!’ Mama Abena commands.
But I am uncatchable. I am MOTIVATED. I am running for my LIFE.
I leap over Yaa's foot (she's still eating that banana, useless).
I dodge Kwame's grab.
I serpentine past Auntie Grace.
And then I see it: the gate. Someone left the gate OPEN. Probably one of the church people arriving for tomorrow's festivities.
The gate is open.
The gate is OPEN.
I don't think. I just run.
‘THE GATE!’ someone yells.
'CLOSE THE GATE!'
But it's too late. I'm through. I'm FREE.
I am running down the street like I'm in an action movie. Behind me, I hear chaos:
‘SOMEBODY CATCH THAT CHICKEN!’
‘IT'S GETTING AWAY!’
‘KOFI, YOU'RE THE YOUNGEST! RUN!’
(Uncle Kofi is sixty. Uncle Kofi is not running anywhere.)
I run past Auntie Adjoa's house. Past the provision store. Past the church (sorry, God, no time to repent). Past Mr. Mensah's goats (they look at me with respect, one livestock to another).
I run until I can't hear them anymore.
I run until my chicken heart feels like it might explode.
I run until I find myself in an abandoned lot behind the old school.
And then I stop.
And I realize: I'm alive.
I'M ALIVE.
THE END
(Or is it? Ominous chicken laughter)
THE ACTUAL END
Henrietta was eventually caught a month later during Efua's naming ceremony, when she got distracted by premium corn. She lived a good life. She regrets nothing. She remains a legend in that compound. Children still tell stories about "the Christmas the chicken escaped." Her spirit lives on in every chicken that refuses to be caught easily. Rest in power, Henrietta. Rest in power.
[Fade to black. Christmas music plays. Credits roll.]
Benjamin Cyril Arthur is currently studying for an MA in creative writing at the University of East Anglia. He won the Emerging Voices scholarship for the Geneva Writers Group Conference 2025 and was the winner of the 2020 Samira Bawumia literary prize award in Ghana. He was a participant in the Canex Creative Writing Workshop 2024. His short stories have appeared in Lolwe, Brittle Paper, Flametree Press, Hummingbird Journal, Tampered Press, Lunaris Review, Lounloun, Ama Atta Aidoo Centre for Creative Writing, and many others.