There Go the Chickens: Two chicks, grown into something almost human.

 

The question itself might seem absurd to some—but to me, it holds a tender truth. You see, when I was growing up, my family raised two baby chickens—a hen and a rooster—who later became something far more than pets. They became family.

It started on a quiet morning when an aunt dropped by, holding two freshly hatched chicks cupped gently in her hands. She handed them to my mother and said, “Keep them. Raise them.” My mother was hesitant. They were too young, barely a few days old, and she worried they wouldn’t survive without their mother. But my aunt insisted: in her faith, chicks hatched after four weeks weren’t considered auspicious. If they survived, fine. If not, that was that.

But there was something about them—their softness, their vulnerability, their quiet trust—that made us want to try. So we did. My parents raised them with the same tenderness they showed me. We named them Titi aah, a sound that mimicked the little chirps they made. My father even made a small totem box so they could sleep in our bedroom, under warm lights, tucked beside me like siblings.

They slept in our arms, curled on our shoulders, nestled in my hair while I napped. They followed us everywhere—into the garden, to the office, even to the school bus stop. When we called out, “Ti-ti ah-ah!” they’d come running. They knew their names. They rarely had accidents, always returning to their box to poop. Their loyalty was uncanny, almost human.

I bottle-fed them when they were too weak to eat on their own. They imprinted on me, not unlike how a chick bonds to its mother after hatching. And in that bond, there bloomed something rare and precious—mutual trust, care, maybe even love.

There was a rooster—my Titi—who was obsessed with sitting on my shoulder. He would crow at the door until someone let him in to nap on a lap. The hen was gentler, quieter, always looking to us for food and affection. They weren’t like the aggressive birds we were warned about. They were sweet. Sensitive. A little wild and deeply wise.

Sometimes, when we went out, people would laugh and call out:

“There go the chickens!”

We didn’t mind. They were with us, part of us.

Eventually, they grew too big to stay in our small home. Neighbours suggested we eat them, but my parents refused. Instead, we gave them to family members who promised to care for them. It broke my heart, but I understood.

Some memories refuse to fade.

Some bonds refuse to break.

And some birds, once held in your hands, will forever live in your heart.