Henpecked Husband


A fifty-year-old Zambian man, caught by his wife having sex with a hen, has killed himself. The hen was slaughtered by villagers. I managed to secure an exclusive interview with the widow, who narrowly escaped being killed by her husband. "He understandably wanted to keep his affair with the hen a private matter," she said.

The cock crowed three times. The Widow shuddered. "He's been outside my hut since the ... infidelity ..." she said softly. "He wants me."

She set the rules for the interview, and one of them was that I could not use her real name. "Just call me the Widow Cluckold," she said sadly. The rooster marched to the door of the hut and scratched menacingly at the hard earth. "He wants tit for tat," she said, pulling her skirt down over her knees and trying to avoid eye contact with the big cock. "My husband had his hen, he wants me."

"Exactly what kind of relationship does your family have with the chickens?" I asked.

"At first it was normal enough," she replied, sinking back into her chair and closing her eyes to block out the aggressive flirtations of the big rooster. "The hens would walk around the yard and pick a little, talk a little, cluck cluck cluck, that sort of thing. Except for Eve ..."

"That was the hen ... "

"Yes ... the one he became ... involved, with ... I'm sorry this is very difficult for me ..."

I gave her my handkerchief and waited while she composed herself enough to go on with her story. "There was something special about this one hen, named Eve?" I prompted.

She nodded angrily. "She would show herself off," she said. "The other hens walked like normal chickens, but she would sort of sashay around the yard with that sultry look in her eyes, and she would brush against my husband's leg -- oh, it seemed innocent enough, like she just didn't notice what she was doing -- but she knew exactly what she was doing. Hens do."

The rooster crowed again and bobbed up and down the way cocks will when they are competing for a hen. "She did it to taunt him," she said. "She used my husband to make him jealous. And the truth is, my husband was jealous of him. He wanted to be a big cock himself."

"How exactly did it become ... I mean ... how did it get out of hand, so to speak, and into the hen?"

"The way it always happens," she said. "One step at a time. When he was sitting in the dirt, smoking, she'd pretend to be pecking seed beside him. Then she'd just turn and stare at him, making eye contact for much longer than is appropriate for a chicken. I think she had some kind of mental power over him, some way of making him know that she wanted him."

"So you believe this was consensual sex, Widow Cluckold?"

"It was consensual all right. She let him know it was okay to pick her up. At first he would just ruffle her feathers and give her a quick kiss. Chickens kiss very quickly, just a little peck on the cheek, you know. And always she'd do it when that big cock was watching her. But no, she was too good for her own kind. She was a social climber, and she didn't give a damn if the man was married or not."

Suddenly the big cock came running through the front door with his wings spread, making strange, aggressive clucking noises in the back of his throat as he made straight for the Widow Cluckold. She shrieked loudly and pressed her knees tightly together, recoiling from the frontal assault.

I jumped up to help her and he turned on me, considering me competition, I assume. His head bobbed up and down and he held his wings up high as he advanced on me. "Alfred Hitchcock could make something out of this," I said. The Widow Cluckold grabbed a broom and swung at the big cock, sending him back into defensive posture. He retreated back through the door of the hut but would not go away. "He's persistent," I said.

"He's demanding his conjugal rights," she whispered. "Maybe ... maybe he is my husband."

"I understood your husband committed suicide after you caught him with the hen."

"Yes, he killed himself. But ... " she leaned toward me and whispered, "This is not really the same rooster as before," she said. "This rooster ... you will think I am crazy ... but I think it might be my husband. I believe his spirit went into this rooster."

She became more emotional and I realized she was in a delicate state. "He loved that hen," she said.

"At first it was just ruffling her feathers, like I said. Then she would get that sultry look, and she would go into a chicken trance, letting him feel her any way he liked. He was a man, with the weaknesses of a man."

"So, you're suggesting he killed himself and his spirit went into that rooster because ..."

"Yes! Because that way they could be together in a real way, not living as outcasts, with the entire village taunting them for their love. They could be normal."

"But it didn't work out that way did it?"

"No," she whispered. "They slaughtered the hen, and now he's trapped in the body of a big cock, strutting around and crowing, wanting to come back to me ... in the Biblical sense ..."

"Isn't that the way it always goes, Widow Cluckold? They leave for the sex, and then, when they suffer the social condemnation, the difficulties of the affair, they want to come back to the comfort of marriage, of hearth and home."

"Yes," she said resignedly. "But I need love. I need emotional bonding, understanding, companionship, conversation. Not just a big cock."

"I understand. But does he?" I looked at the cock, strutting across the hard packed ground, now, like he owned the village.

"He has to move on," she said, "and peck up the pieces."


Posted: Mon - May 31, 2004 at 10:55 PM