To take us all away momentarily from the madness of 1MDB, and the impending economic doom the country is plunging into, and this one hell of a  massive crisis of leadership we have been subjected to, I’d like to share some memories of childhood many of us might be familiar with; growing up in the sixties. This one’s on preparing chicken curry.

In a class of almost 100 percent American kids of the suburbia of Jersey Shore, and the Sopranos, and Bon Jovi-type and tattoo-displaying masculania... I shared this story of globalisation of the American ‘chicken-run’ global industry.

Told them that their life is cool and easy when it comes to eating Colonel Sanders’ KFC... all chickens are powered by batteries and of the same size and made to taste delicious with that perfect recipe of uniformity with the elements of calculability, profitability, and the aura of glorified global economy framing the lives of chickens globally...

I told them how I grew up jumping chickens like a hunter and gatherer in a kampong that still had snakes like anacondas and tigers roaming like the ‘open zoo’ down south in Singapore city...

I told them this in rhymes that is:

- Grandpa told us boys to go after those chickens; we’re going to have gangsta curry

so me and my bro and cousin and all; would get our gears ready;  this means changing from our sarong to a standard hot pants for males only...

And so we roam around the house that has no electricity; for Thomas Alva Edison was still had 999 invention to go before he found out he had misplaced his batteries; and skinny-Gandhi-looking grandpa, like a godfather of chicken industry, commanded us to hunt down that one chicken ripe for the that gangsta curry; and we run around the house and saw one that looked one from the movie ‘Chicken Run’ fearful-looking of a bipolar pedigree.

We strategised the arrest for a good many hours, till the sun and the moon from each other they broke free; the next day the mighty chicken was found finally; we all... brothers and cousins  jumped on it happily; and held it by the neck and the body as it struggled pleading amnesty...

no mercy... no mercy... said we...

Blessed grandpa, bless his soul... ‘I am sure he is smiling reading these gleefully...

and grandpa had his butcher’s knife; me and my bros and my cousins aplenty held the chicken by the neck and prayed together in harmony...

As grandpa uttered the golden words before the feast of this gangsta chicken curry...

“O’ God... Merciful and Most Compassionate One... bless thouest this chicken that will be today’s gift for my family... and unto Thee shall this chicken too return... as all of us shall return... from then till eternity... “ and the drama of the chicken dance was laid out already...

And with that little mantra of Islamic religiosity... the sharpest part of the knife went straight across the jugular vein... downwards once... upwards once.... and maybe one more time if resistance is  not yet futile as grandpa agreed; and we’re done our job as decreed... as blood spurted and spouted and sprinkled out of the neck onto the ground that will too receive the body...

Ahha... we then threw the chicken onto the ground... it did do a bit of dance... as me and my bros and my cuz’ did all at once, and that poor chicken did like a funky chicken dance that might be...

And grandma was ready with big earthenware-pot of boiling water so that the chicken can then be ready to be stripped naked, feathers and all gone forever...

And we would all... brothers and cousins sit around, or rather squatting around in our short hot pants, stripping those feathers... while grandma would prepare the grounded spies for that gangsta curry better than anywhere served in a Malay restaurant... and we have not talked...

And when the chicken’s ready... and the gangsta curry’s all served over white rice and we sat and ate quietly on the floor as if listening attentively to an interesting folklore... as we prepare for the hours next, of playing football barefoot in the fields of grass and dandelions aplenty... kicking the rubber ball barefoot imagining ourselves that famous Brazilian soccer player ‘Pele’...

Makers of our own history

In writing about childhood memories, I thought about what we are as makers of our own history:

GROOVY POETRY

this child in me

by azly rahman

there is this child in me

that is alive and well

roaming around the village

the neighbourhood

the city

the principalities

the world

alternate worlds

of other-than real-worlds

of the world of possibilities

in which each child of the other

has no colour

no race

no religion

no hate

just a smile

or maybe a look of curiosity

of what our play would be

in our togetherness

beyond the screams and yells of those adults

given the voice to speak to many yet speak of building tallest towers, promising the most emptiness, scheming the best so that each race will fight the bloodiest, and triumph with the most money acquired out of the best way to steal for the poorest rest-

there is this child in me

whose dear friend

is the language he is most at ease

like an alice in wonderland

a world of being

and becoming

of perfection

and contradictions

and wild imaginations

as thoughts race up and down the heavens

as the mind refuses

to bow down to neon gods

or man-made gods who called themselves

kings who rob others poor every time the world blinks

a child is the father of man as a sage once say

close to Nature as

close as to oneself as the vein they called ‘jugular’

there is this child in me

that will live till the end of eternity

unless the adult running the country

slaughter him for trying to roam free

like abraham’s sacrifice

in that moment of confusion in history

DR AZLY RAHMAN grew up in Johor Baru, Malaysia and holds a Columbia University (New York City) doctorate in International Education Development and Masters degrees in the fields of Education, International Affairs, Peace Studies and Communication. He will be pursuing his fifth Masters in Fine Arts, specialising in Fiction and Poetry Writing. He has taught more than 50 courses in six different departments and has written more than 350 analyses/essays on Malaysia. His 25 years of teaching experience in Malaysia and the United States spans over a wide range of subjects, from elementary to graduate education. He has edited and authored six books; Multiethnic Malaysia: Past, Present, Future (2009), Thesis on Cyberjaya: Hegemony and Utopianism in a Southeast Asian State (2012), The Allah Controversy and Other Essays on Malaysian Hypermodernity (2013), Dark Spring: Essays on the Ideological Roots of Malaysia's General Elections-13 (2013), a first Malay publication Kalimah Allah Milik Siapa?: Renungan dan Nukilan Tentang Malaysia di Era Pancaroba (2014), and Controlled Chaos: Essays on Mahathirism, Multimedia Super Corridor and Malaysia’s ‘New Politics’ (2014). He currently resides in the United States where he teaches courses in Education, Philosophy, Cultural Studies, Political Science, and American Studies. His forthcoming book, One Malaysia, under God, Bipolar, a joint project between Gerakbudaya and World Wise Books of New Jersey, USA, is his seventh compilation of essays on Malaysian Cultural, Creative, and Critical Studies. He is currently working on his eighth book, on Gifted and Talented Education in Malaysia, honouring a prominent educator. Twitter , blog .