A Turkey Revival

We moved to Nigeria, Africa, in June 1983. I had my two children in tow as we crossed the tarmac on that hot, sweltering afternoon to the dilapidated white building which I presumed was the main airport building. When we entered the small room known as the airport transit and waiting hall as well as the immigration and customs office, we were met by a crowd of milling Nigerians, all shuffling around, talking very excitedly and crowding around us. I had our passports in my hand ready to present them for the customs proceedings. A tall Nigerian in national dress assured me that he had been sent to take care of all necessary procedures. He told me “Massa” had sent him. I did not know at that time who Massa was or how this Nigerian knew who I was until I looked around - only one very white woman and two white children. Of course the Nigerian knew who I was and Massa was none other than my husband. My two boys and I found a spot near the exit and leaned up against the wall, hoping that all would go well. I saw my passport go through a hole in the wall and some time later, the tall Nigerian came toward me, again smiling, with our passports in hand. We decided to try to find our luggage. At least five people crowded around us and “offered” to help us find and carry our luggage. Again the tall Nigerian came to the rescue. He passed out a few Kobo and settled on three porters to help with the three suitcases. I was greatly relieved when I saw my husband waiting for me and the driver, Obandima, as I later learned he was called. We drove along a bumpy, potholed road, with horns blaring and cars, trucks, motorbikes, bicycles and animals going in every direction. On a two lane road, we seemed to fit in four lanes of traffic, everyone bumping and bouncing along. We were heading for our “home.“ I did not dare ask my husband what our house looked like. I decided to let him surprise me.

We reached a tree-lined boulevard, stopped in front of a rather large gate, Obandima honked the horn and two guards in national dress, armed with bows and arrows, opened the gate, “Welcome, Mata,” they smiled and bowed. I was greatly relieved when my husband introduced me to “John.” John, my husband assured me, had come greatly recommended and would teach me how to survive and live in Africa. A wonderful meal waited for us and the boys and I tucked in. John had worked for a French family and a Danish bachelor. I learned much from John and will always be grateful to him for helping me through those tough first weeks in Africa. We had just completed our wonderful meal, when we heard a lot of commotion and chattering in the compound. The African Grey parrot, flapped his wings and squawked, “Somebody coming, ha-ha-ha, coming. Somebody coming.“ The love birds cooed and crooned excitedly. The African Grey turned out to be one of the most enjoyable birds I have ever had. John went to see what the commotion was all about and was soon back, smiling and informing us that the contractor had arrived to pay his respects to Mata with a present. It was then that I realized that I was Mata. The contractor had spent quite some time on the house, removing sections that the termites had devoured and generally just painting and fixing other parts of the house which needed repair. In return for the work my husband had given him, he wanted to show his appreciation and give me a present. John invited the contractor into our house; he bowed and smiled and wished me welcome. He then presented me with a live turkey which he held by the legs up-side-down. A live turkey as a welcome present. Well, who would have thought of it. Little did I realize then what a great gift this turkey was and how very special his token of appreciation was.

I am a city girl and was not accustomed to caring for live fowl of any type, so John and I held a conference and decided the safest place for the turkey was the inner courtyard. That way the thieves would not steal it, and we could feed it regularly. The turkey spent its first safe night in the courtyard, and the next day John rode his Vespa scooter to the market to buy millet, corn and a mixture of other grains. John was in charge of the turkey and tossed the grains out on the courtyard surface every day. Every morning the turkey was let out into the compound and every evening the turkey was herded through the dining room, around the living room with John trotting along behind the turkey shooing it down the hall into the inner courtyard. I don’t know what was more amusing, watching John and the turkey (wiping up after the turkey as it strutted along) or watching the expression on our occasional guests’ faces during this evening routine. The turkey grew and thrived and so did the corn, the millet and other grains after the first rains! What a mess. The soil in the inner courtyard was, apparently, quite fertile and the grains grew and flourished. We spent a lot of time weeding and trying to keep the courtyard from looking like an unattended farmer’s field. We also decided that the grains needed to go into a tray or dish rather than just tossed on to the ground.

All was well until John came in one day greatly agitated. “Mata, a very bad thing has happened.

The turkey has tick fever.”

“Tick fever! What a lot of nonsense. Never heard of such a thing. If you want the turkey for yourself, say so, but don’t give a story that the turkey has tick fever,“ I responded rather annoyed.

“No,” John was adamant, “the turkey has the fever.”

What do we do?” I asked.

“We have to chop the turkey,” he replied promptly.

“I do not know how to chop a turkey, John,” I replied concerned.

“No problem. Moody (our gardener) and I will take care of that. We will chop the turkey and pluck it. The turkey is much too beautiful and will make a very good soup,” John volunteered.

I did not exactly want turkey soup, so I suggested that we roast the turkey.

“It will be too tough, Mata. We must cook the turkey,” John insisted.

“Oh, well, I suppose you know best, John. Chop the turkey and we will talk about the menu later,” I decided. I had learned that John was usually right when it came to preparing food in Africa. Moody and John took off after the turkey, chased it around the compound and finally captured it. The capture was followed by a lot of counseling, discussion, commotion and neighborhood involvement - chopping a turkey was not an every-day event. We ate our lunch and John and Moody disappeared. I looked for the turkey; it was nowhere in sight. Fine thing, I though. I have really been had. I bet they chopped the turkey, have cooked it and are now eating it. I felt very bad when I later discovered the whole turkey in the freezer.

My husband and I discussed the turkey. It was close to Thanksgiving but would it matter if we did not keep the turkey but gave it to John for his soup. We did not really care for turkey soup. We agreed. John could have the turkey and cook it for his family and friends. I will never forget the look of disbelief when we told John he could have the turkey. John smiled, he bowed, he beamed, he jumped up and down for joy, he got on his knees and thanked us again. He even thanked God. “I will be a very great man when I cook the turkey and invite the friends from my church. We will have a turkey revival meeting,” he exclaimed. “I will cook the soup and we will pray and dance to praise God for such a wonderful present.” In Africa the Christian and pagan customs blended together into wonderful harmony.

That Sunday the cooking of the turkey began in the afternoon. Guests arrived. After a while I lost count of the stream of people who came. I had no idea how that many people were going to share one small turkey which had been chopped for this event. The revival meeting started with the steady sound of drums, then singing, tribal dancing, then hymns and more dancing, in no particular order. There was a brief period of moderate activity, probably when they finally got around to eating the turkey soup, then the festivities began again and continued until the early hours of the morning. When I spoke to John the next day, he told me that the turkey had been too beautiful and they had had to praise God for it for a long time.

I don’t remember what we had for Thanksgiving that year. It might have been one of John’s famous chicken recipes or spare ribs over charcoal which John prepared so incredibly well. And I still wonder to this day if that turkey really had tick fever or if John just got the better of us.

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