Galloway 1

Shanelle Galloway

Killing to Bless

The stench of boiling flesh was relentless; the scene in the crude kitchen shack

was no more forgiving with the shallow bowls of steaming blood lying on the bare

cement floor, but I had to be there. I could not allow myself to leave. I knew that—no

matter how much I dreaded doing what I was about to do—if I did not do this, I would

look back on this instant and regret my decision.

Among the Zulu people of South Africa, it is tradition to sacrifice an animal when

“adopting” someone into their tribe. The summer splitting Junior and Senior years of high

school, I, along with seven other American teenagers, had the opportunity to travel to

South Africa—the land of the Zulus—to participate in humanitarian projects. On

occasion, we were fortunate enough to take part in various ceremonies, such as this

“adoption.”

The village people gathered eight chickens—one for each of the American kids. I

watched as one-by-one my friends took their turns sawing through the throats of their

chickens with a small knife like cutthroats with a blade in need of a whetstone. I felt my

stomach churn as the concrete floor splattered with deep, dark red fluid—as the severed

heads fell to the floor, beaks fluttering on the last, spastic nervous message of

decapitation. When the villagers motioned for me to go take my chance, I felt my heart

thump unmercifully against my sternum like the drums of a war party in Deep Africa.

How could I do this? I am a spoiled American girl; I have never had to kill my

dinner, I pay other people to do so. All the chicken I have ever eaten came conveniently

pre-dead, pre-plucked, pre-cleaned, and pre-packaged beautifully in plastic wrapping.

 Galloway 2

More over, I have never delighted in taking the life of something—something that has

blood coursing through its veins; regardless, there is always a first time…

One of the men held a chicken out to me. The hen’s wings lay gently across her

back. I curved my fingers around her, caging her body in my hands. She made no noise,

as if she had known her fate and had accepted it. Her feathers were silky smooth in my

palms. The pads of my fingers were pressed to her heart; I witnessed every thud-thud,

thud-thud, thud-thud of that small moment prior to her death. It was at that same moment

I thought, “This chicken belongs to someone—some impoverished family that is lucky to

get one meal a day.” This would be my contribution.

I laid the chicken sideways on the cement floor, I extended her wings, and I

placed my right foot on her wings to keep her steadied. Positioning the bowl, already

brimming with the liquid of life, I stretched the hen’s neck over the lip, then reached for

the knife. I slid my thumb along the textured plastic of the handle. I inhaled. From

somewhere I heard, “If you do it fast, she won’t suffer.”

Gulping, I swept my arm down and pressed the blade on the ivory feathers of the

hen’s neck. Closing my eyes, I pressed…..hard. I jerked the knife upward, pulling it

toward me, then downward, pushing it away. I felt the muscle tissue pull taut and release.

A fluid, sticky warmth oozed over my fingers; the scent of blood rushed to my nostrils,

invigorating my olfactory nerve. A heinous scraping noise reverberated in my eardrums

as I forced the blade through the rigid structure of vertebrae. All at once, everything

released. It was over. Convulsing, I dropped the knife, my hands red. I had done it. The

villagers spoke, “We give you the name Busisiwe—Blessing.” With that, I walked out

into the sunshine and fresh air, the children tugging at my hand to come play with them.