THE CHICKEN

I was traveling in Busia County, the poorest part of rural Kenya visiting the birth homes of college students that Kenyan Schoolhouse has educated since elementary school. These visits were requested by particular students, and we did quite a few of them during the three weeks we filmed in the most remote parts of Kenya - some 14 hours by lifethreatening roads to the edge of Uganda.

Carlos Otieno was one such Kenyan Schoolhouse college student who has graduated after years of our program’s support and now works as a social worker in Mathare slum, the largest and most dangerous slum in East Africa. Carlos has been supporting his grandmother, who in turn supports the offspring of her children who died of HIV. So, we are about to visit a grandmom with eight children living in a dung hut that collapsed in a sudden downpour characteristic of climate change. It rained insanely last January and destroyed the house, but it hasn’t rained normally for four years in Busia County and so the land is dry, there are no crops, there’s no food to be found. The corn is dead in the field and so is everything else.

In February we wired the funds to build a new house for the family and we wanted to pay a visit and take food with us for the many mouths sheltering with grandma.

As we drove up, our team swung immediately into action. As Teresa Otieno welcomed me with the full array of children behind her, our driver (who was born in Busia) and our social worker from ANPPCAN, our Kenyan partner organization, translated in Luhya, while my translator helped load food (and I mean lots of food) into the house, without discussion of any kind. Rice, beans, flour, salt, soap, toilet paper, sugar, corn meal, cooking oil all disappeared in a half dozen boxes.

We made clear during the interview that all her grandchildren would be enrolled in school and supported for the rest of their educations - thus protecting them from the dangers of child labor or trafficking.

While Teresa sat for an interview I couldn’t understand a word of, I moved about the property and shot film of how and where they live. This was the poorest homestead I have ever seen. As we were leaving, Teresa approached me carrying a tidy wrapped box, tied up tight, the contents not visible, and offered it as a gift to me in thanks for coming. In this culture, to refuse such a gift would be an insult and so, while protesting in English under my breath, I thanked her and accepted the box.

Naturally, as any curious person would, I asked what was inside. Glowing with pride, Teresa Otieno untied the box and presented me with a beautiful hen... the only such bird in their yard that just minutes before had been running around the property. She had given me the most precious thing they owned.

Kenyans do not eat chicken. They can’t afford it. A chicken is for eggs. To give your hen away to a visitor who is staying in a miserable hotel in the area made my stomach turn. “Where am I supposed to put a chicken?”

I asked Kevin, our driver. I smiled at Teresa and took the chicken; we said our goodbyes and drove away with the chicken in a box in a camera van with a crew of seven and piles of film equipment.

At this point, ten days into our filming in the country, this crew is a family and there is no subject too delicate for gallows humor. “We should name this chicken” I suggested, “and we can give it to the next farm we visit invoking the cultural custom of ‘gifts’ so they can’t refuse to take it. So, what shall we call the chicken? We may as well give it a name.”

“LEN MORRIS,’ replied the crew in hysterical unison. “Call the chicken LEN MORRIS!” In less than a half hour, well after 9pm we arrived at our hotel... the one with no hot water, no light, no toilet seat and one thin towel to hand wash a day of filming children at gravel quarries off my exhausted body.

In the morning, after a breakfast that poisoned me (I ended up sick for a few days our return to Nairobi from food offered as a “welcome gift”), I went to the van and immediately asked about the chicken.

“It’s in the boot.” said Kevin. “You mean the chicken spent the night in a box in the trunk with the gear?” “Yes,” he said. “Have you given it air and water?” I asked incredulously. “Yes,” he said.

We drove away and arrived to film a group of fifteen women who have formed a self-help society to lift each other up. These women are all alone in the world, apart from their children, who live meal to meal. Their mothers are all victims of the worst forms of abuse. The sang and danced their welcome to us in our honor. It was another “Here comes

Len Morris” moment, which I truly hate. They were led by Florence Mukhwana, about thirty-five years old, whose son was a product of sexual violence.

The routine doesn’t alter. I accept their welcome and contribute a small fortune (for them) to their lending pool where they spot each other with small cash loans made to those who are having the hardest time that month. We bought a mountain of food at their farmstand, one of the many small businesses they are developing to enable them to have income and feed their children. And you could see these businesses were about more than money – it was about the restoration of their dignity and independence.

Each time our ANPPCAN social worker told them of the support we offered.... it was greeted with another unmistakable joyous outpouring of song and dance. Kind of tough to ignore. We told them we’d enroll all their children in school (we are in fact still tabulating the impact of that offer, it appears to be about 20 children) and we told them we would support all their small enterprises - and they went crazy again. It was just so touching, I had a hard time keeping it together.

And then it was time to leave.

I motioned to Florence to join me privately. I presented her with LEN MORRIS.

I told her that Len Morris (the human one) was giving her a non-refundable gift and that with it, he was giving his approval for her to decide the fate of LEN MORRIS, the chicken.

“You can set her free and she will give you eggs. But if you need to feed your family and friends, you may KILL LEN MORRIS.”

With that, we got back in the van and headed for a gold mine filled with children.

LEN MORRIS is the Editorial Director of Media Voices for Children, a documentary filmmaker, lecturer and advocate for children’s human rights. In 2012 he was the recipient of the Iqbal Masih Award from the U.S. Department of Labor for his “extraordinary efforts to end the worst forms of child labor.”