Ruling the roost

We kept chickens on the farm where I grew up. Fresh eggs and the delicious chicken tagine were part of our weekly diet. This beats today’s battery production poultry, from which a few of my friends are wisely turning their backs, to become vegetarians or vegans. Since stabbing myself with a chicken bone in January for the first time in many years in catering and nearly dying of sepsis, I have become very wary of raw meat. For the last year or so, I have been toying with the idea of giving up meat altogether but am yet to make the switch. 

Looking after the farm hens, was our proud rooster, Messaoud.

Every morning, just before dawn, he walked up to the wooden fence and leapt onto its highest post, just by the edge of the fence.

As the sun began to cast its first rays, his magnificent plumage sparkled in the rising sunlight. He cleared his throat, filled his chest with morning air and began his chant.

It burst out as a reveille bugle, melodious and smooth yet powerful and commanding.

Cock-a-doodle-doo! (or Cocorico! in French.)

He then bowed his crested head to an invisible audience.

His wake-up duty over, he did the rounds of the farm, strutting his stuff in all his regalia like a uniformed sergeant-major.

He never mingled with the rest of the flock, preferring to remain still on a ridge to keep a discreet eye on the tiny balls of yellow feathers that were his pride and joy.

He stretched his neck at the slightest unfamiliar sound and investigated the immediate surroundings without leaving his watch-tower.

Papa’s arrival in his shiny black car, our tired feet returning from school, the water bucket clinking as my mother lowered it into the well, none of these familiar sounds ever managed to get him to stray from his sentry duty.

The only thing that did was the arrival of an old lady we all called Aunty Mabrouka.

She stood at the farm entrance and shouted for my mother to help her gain safe passage to the farmhouse.

My mother, in her apron, hands covered in dough always shouted:

“Just come along, Aunty. You’ll be ok!” as she returned to kneading the daily bread.

The old, frail woman began making her way along the dusty path, her back arched by the years, covered in her usual red woollen shawl.

Messaoud’s eagle eyes followed the moving red target from the main road, past the well and the fig trees, the radish patch and the feeding hens. Aunty Mabrouka edged her way in a wide semi-circle in an attempt to avoid him but as she came past, a few yards from the door, Messaoud pounced.

The rooster swiftly climbed on her hunched back and began pecking the back of her neck as she ran towards the wooden door, screaming for my mother and swaying from side to side, trying to unseat the feathered pest.

My mother came out brandishing her rolling pin. Messaoud calculated his escape just as Aunty Mabrouka dived through the doorway. He jumped off, fluffed up his feathers and slowly swaggered past his adoring flock, back to his pedestal.

This hilarious episode was replayed many times until he died of old age when I was eight.

Papa buried him behind the farmhouse. I stood by his side as he lowered the remains of our dear rooster into a makeshift grave. After he covered it with soil, I placed a red rag attached to a twig to mark the spot.

Messaoud’s replacement had none of his pageantry or ferocity and Aunty Mabrouka was very relieved as her visits became more regular.