Carol’s Column

The gift in pink: chicken manure

THE table looked exquisite. The cloth white and crisp, the silver gleamed, the crystal sparkled and the blush pink baby roses bloomed in their delicate vase.

The food was poignantly delectable, tickling the tastebuds in the most delightful way and the conversation was scintillating.

“I couldn’t do without it,” said the beautiful young woman opposite me.

Her very attractive companion agreed. “There’s nothing like it,” he said. “It’s an absolute saviour. I’d be bereft without it.”

Naturally, I was curious.

“What actually can you not do without?” I asked curiously.

“Chicken ordure,” she replied and smiled.

I almost choked on my smoked caviar blini.

Was I hearing right?

“It is unbelievable,” she said. “Put a little in your garden and it’s like magic. Everything grows. And, everyone’s doing it.”

Now I can remember the days when chickens were chickens and what they excreted was obnoxious and foul-smelling. Indeed a good fertiliser, one needed to wear a gas mask for a week, so horrible was the pong. Worse, it lingered on.

“Doesn’t it smell?” I asked.

“Barely,” she replied. “And what is more, it comes beautifully packaged in shocking pink.”

Where, I asked, could I acquire a packet of this magic substance, for my garden was pitiful. A wasteland where everything struggled and only weeds flourished.

“Any supermarket or nursery,” she replied.

I couldn’t wait to buy a packet of shocking pink chicken manure. Alack, I couldn’t find it anywhere.

My local supermarket manager was most helpful. “What actually is it you’re looking for,” he enquired.

“Shocking pink chicken manure.”

“Shocking pink chicken manure? How unusual,” he murmured. “I’ve heard of brown and grey chicken dung, but I didn’t realise it came in a shocking pink colour too.”

I repeated that I was told just one teaspoon of this remarkable stuff would virtually turn a struggling sweetpea into a six-metre creeper overnight.

However, it seemed there was a short supply of chicken manure in Johannesburg. Mushroom compost, cow manure, chemical fertiliser, that was freely available, but chicken manure was like gold.

And then, one day, when I was least expecting it, a large attractively be-ribboned shocking pink packet arrived. It was a gift from a thoughtful friend who heard I was desperate for chicken ordure.

I couldn’t wait to spread it over my pathetic garden.

“What is this?” said my minister of agriculture, Mr Loda Mphela.

“This, Loda, is fertiliser,” I replied, “which will make the garden grow.”

He opened the packet and placed his nostrils near the aperture. “Hmmm, to me it smells like chicken shit,” he said. “Good stuff,” he added. “On my farm in Hammanskraal, I use the real thing and everything grows like wildfire.”

“Loda, this is the real thing,” I replied.

He shook his head and I am not sure he was convinced. Nevertheless, he spread the manure, watered and waited. That was two weeks ago.

Yesterday morning I was greeted by an extremely agitated Mr Mphela.

Normally a taciturn man, he was beside himself. “Come, come,” he said, pulling me towards the back of the garden towards the vegetable patch.

But the vegetable patch had gone, and in its place was what looked like a forest. A forest of mealies.

Mealies? Big, strong, healthy mealies in October?

“I didn’t want to spoil the garden with this funny stuff, so I thought I’d try it out on the mealie patch. This is the result.” He smiled.

“This sweet-smelling pink chicken shit, it is indeed a miracle,” he pronounced.

“Viva chickens.”

Let every chicken have its day. And its way.

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