“We got-a duck!” I hear Jimmy shout, walking up the steps.
“We got-a duck and more poyo,” he repeats and adds. It’s Saturday.
The sun has yet to rise above its eight o’clock notch in the sky. The front door clicks open. Bare feet are slapping against the parlor floor. The sound of mats being rolled scratches the air. I turn over in bed. My girlfriend sits up, stretching her sleep filled arms up to her Sand Man eyes. Her Julie Andrews hair cut is tossed like a peacock in the back. Thin pink lips and rose cheeks are diffused from the mesh walls of the mosquito net.
“Should we get up?” Mille asks.
I shrug, pause then sigh before answering.
“I suppose it’s that time.”
We draw up the mosquito net and step onto the dusty, blue and black starred mat. Darkness covers the room save for the few shards of light peeking through the shutters. A speckled iris of light is formed in the top right edge of the net. I shuffle blindly to the window. Peeling back the orange curtain I let out a warning,
A dim glow penetrates the room. Must be cloudy. Three clanks from the deadbolt unlock the bedroom door. Jimmy and Jessie are organizing their sleeping arrangements from the night before. Three lapas lay tangled on the floor. Brian sits out front, bent over a book. One of those thick novels found on the grocery store checkout rack. A veil of clouds lines the sky.
Combing his beard with both hands rhythmically like vertical gills Jimmy steps onto the veranda. Dressed in green Cote D’ Ivoire football shorts and a blue and grey stripped tank-top, he looks up to say,
“Le we get for make coffee?”
“Mhm, mhm, mhm,” I reply, scanning the veranda for the broom.
It hides behind the door. Sweeping the previous nights ash away, something white is tucked under the bench - an oval object that was not there yesterday. I get closer. Dirty yellow feet are bound up. The ducks wings are tied back.
“You weren’t lyin’. You got-a duck,” I say rather flat.
“Where did you get the duck? Was it the one –“
“Over by the chiefs. From the poyo lady.” Jimmy replies matter-of-factly.
“Hm. That’s a good lookin’ duck.”
Jimmy grabs the coal pot and brings it out. The boys arrive in time to fill it.
“We get for break de coal,” he tells them.
I send Ahmed for fire. Water boils above the coals. A count of coffee drinkers is taken. Four. Jimmy contributes several of his Nescafé 3-in-1 sachets from his private stock. After some debate, he saves two for the next morning. Oranges are passed around. I peel two and hand one to Mille. Coffee is sipped, cigarettes are lit. A crowd begins to gather. Welcome to the Opoto Circus. Any semblance of a quiet morning is shattered like pieces of ice washed ashore.
They come in small groups of two or three to watch. What? Who knows? Mapaki may have never seen this many opotos in one place. The coals are tipped out onto the ground in front of the house. A bench is brought down from the carpenter. We mill around the house for another hour and a half. Five litres of poyo goes quick.
“Should we start cooking?” Jimmy asks, putting on a blue Phillies hat.
New coals are added to the pot.
“Lets put the pot down under the tree. Keep the veranda open ya know.”
Covering the open ground of the front yard an arbor expands, reminiscent of the sycamores of the south. Shaded by the branches we relight the coals.
“We should boil water for plucking first. You got a rubber for plucking?”
“Yeah.” I run inside to take the pot and rubber.
Jessie begins preparing the pumpkin. In truth it’s more like an oversized green squash. Mottled yellow near the stem and base. Brian and Mille go for water, taking the orange and green bucket. She returns a few minutes later with the bucket on her head. I lift it off and take it inside. Brian sits on the veranda and reads again. There’s something wrong with that boy.
“You going to kill that duck?” I ask Jimmy.
Crouched over the coals with the fan he looks over adjusting his squatted position,
“I figure it’s only right. You found it, you kill.”
We laugh and exchange some conversation about a favor in the past. Confirming his right to kill the duck over a committee member spot he gave up. Rock, paper, scissors won’t be necessary. Steam rises from the edge of the pot. Jimmy hands the fan off to Timoty and leaves. The rolling hiss of boiling water sounds. He returns with two rags to remove the water. One rag is used first. Too hot. Too thin. Both rags are needed.
Taking a dry piece of grass, Jimmy ties it to the loop on the cover. The top is lifted off. Scalding water is poured into a blue rubber; round and shallow like a bowl. Placing it back on the coals we agree, more water. It’s a good sized bird. Removing the duck from under the chair, where he wiggled himself, we gather for a family photo. Mille shoots a few pictures. The duck goes back onto the veranda. Jimmy fetches a knife.
One person holds the wings and head. The other cuts the throat.
Decapitate or bleed it. In a predominately Muslim country, bleeding is the most respectful.
Walking up the steps Mille stops me,
“Can we wait. Maybe ten-minutes, for the others?”
“Yeah. For sure. Duck killing is the main attraction.”
She smiles. I walk indoors.
Jessie has skinned the pumpkin. It lays halved on the table. She is cubing one hemisphere. A bowl of pumpkin skin sits at the back of the counter. The parlor is muted. Only one window flicks light into the room. We contemplate mashing the pumpkin or leaving it in its cubed form. Cubed. From the road the sound of a car rattles. The noise is easily identified a quarter of a mile away. Ears become trained for a change in the village soundtrack.
“Emerson! Oh, he’s driving…no wait, here they come,” Mille says from the veranda.
Jessie and I walk out. Mille goes down to meet the car. She calls me. I follow. Brian fans the fire as Jimmy transfers the new pot of boiled water. I greet the girls and stop to chat with Emerson, the driver.
I talk with his daughter. Her English is spoken well. We thank each other before he backs down the hill. One of the girls carries a pink basket with apples, oil, gin, and plantains. At the house introductions are made. Everyone returns to their task.
“Now. Can we kill the duck?” Jimmy asks.
“Yeah. I think now is a good time.”
About twenty people deep, the crowd circles around us. I take the wings and head, laying the duck on its right side. Jimmy wants to bleed it out. He pulls hard on the knife. It doesn’t leave a scratch. The duck quivers. He cuts harder. Nothing. A man I’ve never met takes the knife. He returns from sharpening it at the carpenters. Some confusion about cutting the throat occurs. I grab the knife and pass it to Jimmy. We can’t let someone else kill our duck.
“Let’s try this again,” he says.
A swift cut opens the throat. Warm blood runs across my right fingers. Only a surface wound. More cutting is needed. The knife slices deeper. Shaking, the duck’s body pumps with despair. He is bleeding pretty good. Mohammed steps in to cut the jugular - another man I’d never met. Melene, a doctor, steps in. She cuts the head off. I am alone with the duck. Every shiver runs through my hands and arms. The top of the spine thumps like a metronome. One tense jerk travels out of its body.
“You suppose this is the closest its been to water?” I ask.
Jimmy laughs. We put the duck in the hot water.
“Fuck. This shit is hot.”
“You’re going to have to do the butt hole, man,” Jimmy tells me.
I save the worst for last and begin with the wings. The bird is filthy. Stained grey and brown from blood and dirt, the water fills quickly with feathers. Words are exchanged about leaving or dumping the plucked feathers. We leave them. Almost finished with the plucking, the crowd has drawn within arms reach. Water is dumped out and new water is added. Jessie brings out the pumpkin and adds it to the remaining boiling water on the pot. Jimmy puffs out his cheeks and sighs. I move onto the anus. Mohammed steps in a few seconds after to finish.
The ducks head becomes a torture device. Jimmy threatens the children. They scatter, laughing. We play this game for a couple of minutes. I place a lit cigarette in the duck’s mouth. A child is lifted up in Jimmy’s right hand. He poses with the duck’s head in his other hand. How American.
Helene stands in the kitchen dressed in an Africana fabric cut like a summer dress. Her loose brown curls wave over her shoulders as she slices apples and bread fruit. Ida helps. The bread fruit is sliced into triangles. On top, Helene adds sugar to some. Others receive salt. Jessie returns with the pumpkin, now boiled.
In the front yard Mohammed guts the duck. Less than five minutes occur before the task is completed. Coals are added to the fire. More water is boiled. The duck goes in. Helene switches to duck cooking. She asks for two cans of tomato paste and green beans. I make a mixture of lemon pepper, garlic salt, and chicken seasoning. Two onions and a clove of garlic find their way into the pot.
Outfitted with a pack of opotos, the veranda is filled with good company. Reduced by half, our audience has returned to their own work. Jimmy makes a whiskey and cola for us. It’s a mild blend. I nurse it for the next hour. The last of the meal is prepared. Brian mentions having Mohammed as our guest of honor. I agree. Jimmy and I carry a table out. I add two flowers to an old soda bottle. Napkins with a fall leaf theme are added, then removed. Not yet. These kids will go nuts. Two benches and several chairs line the table. Enough seats for nine. Milled and I change into our Sunday best. She in a black and white stripped long sleeve with a black skirt. I put on khakis and a blue western shirt with a tie.
More family photographs are taken at the table. Mohammed is made the guest of honor. To the right of the table, bread fruit fries while the plantains wait in line.
“Well, as the host –“ Jimmy entices me.
“As a good Christian American, let us join hands,” I begin.
Smiles cross all faces. Taking a line from Clark Griswald, I give thanks,
The other Americans join.
We move into a rusty performance of the Salone national anthem. Mohammed takes part. Jimmy asks me to say a few words. I rise half way up from my seat and advise them it’s not my style, and thank everyone for coming. The meal finished after an hours time. As we sat full of mystery duck, pumpkin and fried fruits, Jessie asked the time.
“3:30p.m.,” someone mumbles.
“Ha. That’s pretty good timing,” Jessie says and continues,
“When did we start? 10:00a.m.?”
“Pretty close to a real Thanksgiving. You took a nap, we cooked all day, had some drinks. Shit, all we need is a walk,” I say.
A few last bites are taken before people rise to clear the table. Leftovers are given to the children.
