I never anticipated this tusk would fall squarely on my birthday. Not because I would celebrate it but because it would mostly find me thinking alot about life’s ideals or engrossed in work. So I thought I’d write about something serious. Chicken. Yes, kuku. It’s the only worthy constant today. Sorry, yesterday too. If chicken was a religion, I’d be in the cult division of KFC kuku.

You see, with KFC kuku you don’t need a bite. You just need the idea of it, then it’s a downward spiral. Since being a KFC convert, some of my friendships have been on the line. Because some calls will find me on ‘Do Not Disturb’ mode when I’m with my chicken. If it’s spicy chicken, hell, I’ll even add an auto-reject message reading, “Can’t pick. In traffic” because it’s a crime to get distracted doing important things.

On Thursday, I received a higher calling—not one but two KFC orders. My first was lunch for you, and just an appetizer in our world. Our Kuku world. Just like how God tested Abraham’s faith through his son Isaac, our god, Shikuku bin ngoho tested my taste buds, and I almost failed. Shikuku bin Ngoho knew that damn KFC branch overdid the spice. So Shikuku sent Angel Mabawa to his convert, Leroy. Angel Mabawa passed the message: I didn’t deserve that level of spice. No follower of Shikuku did. Shikuku loved Leroy. Angel Mabawa pointed me to a ram, sorry, the live chat option because we don’t call to complain. It’s rude and wastes time.

In our world, prayers aren’t answered with just things, it’s answered with better (edible) things. Normally, these prayers are answered with calls from KFC managers—bishop level in our world—asking how best they could kuku your life up. But because we are staunch believers and have receipts to prove (quite literally) we are royalty. A cult is nothing without its cultists.

Sadly, we banish some members like most cults. Others because their (bad) doctors told them so, others because their pockets couldn’t stand them anymore. Others got a lower calling, vegetarians and their terrible worship days like Meatless Mondays. On days like my birthday, every ‘street-wise’ order, every wing, and each crumb is a little greasy, finger-licking good bit of simple joy.