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— The Poisonwood Bible - Barbara Kingsolver
==The River Kwilu is not like the River Jordan, chilly and wide.
It is a lazy, rolling river as warm as bathwater, where crocodiles are said to roll around like logs.
No milk and honey on the other side, either, but just more stinking jungle laying low in the haze, as far, far away as the memory of picnics in Georgia.== I closed my eyes and dreamed of real soda pop in convenient throwaway cans.
We all ate fried chicken that Mother had cooked, southern style, starting from scratch with killing them and lopping off their heads.
These were the self-same chickens Ruth May had chased around the house that very morning before church.
My sisters moped somewhat, but I nibbled my drumstick happily!
Considering my whole situation, I was not about to be bothered by the spectrum of death at our picnic.
I was just grateful for a crispy taste of something that connected this creepy, buzzing heat with real summertime.
The chickens had been another surprise for us, like Mama Tataba.
There was just the biggest flock of black-and-white-checkered hens here waiting for us when we arrived.
They were busting out of the henhouse, roosting in the trees and wherever they could find a spot, for after Brother Fowles left, they’d all gone to hiding their eggs and raising up babies during the backslide between missions.
People in the village had thought of helping us out by eating a few before we got here, but Mama Tataba, I guess, kept them warded off with a stick.
==It was Mother who decided to contribute most of the flock for feeding the village, like a peace offering.
On the morning of the picnic she had to start in at the very crack of dawn, to get all those hens killed and fried up.
At the picnic she walked through the crowd passing out thighs and drumsticks to the little children, who acted just as pleased as punch, licking their fingers and singing out hymns.==