chickens are frustrating, and yet I would not hope to see an end to chickens

I was walking through Kololo the other day (en route from a pub to a restaurant, I think). There have been heavy rains in Uganda, and in fact across all of sub-Saharan Africa, for the past several weeks, but this day was one long, languid migration of juicy sunshine and the giggling shadows of palm fronds from west to east. I was wearing my sunglasses and usual work clothing -- tailored shirt, slacks -- and sort of enjoying the slightly overwhelming sensation of the striking heat; I felt myself coming to a slow boil as the water in me began migrating to my clothing and then my second-layer accoutrements. Walking up a verdant trail to the main road, I caught sight of a bone-white stray chicken pecking and scratching near some bushes. Immediately, viscerally, instinctively, I froze, my eyes wide and greedy. Slowly, very slowly, I dropped my pack to the ground and crept after the chicken, which saw me fairly quickly but didn't consider me a threat, having already been lulled (as close as a lull state is to a chicken's normal mental mode, which is in depth someplace betweena stapler and a cloud) into poultrous quiescence by my disarming smile and soothingly smooth leather shoes.As this occurred, a guy drove up on a motorcycle and figured quickly what was going down. We didn't speak, so as not to alert the chicken, but we exchanged a series of glances that could be roughly translated as follows:boda boda guy: You are trying to catch this chicken, I see. This is well.me: I appreciate your instantaneous apprehension.bbg: I will approach it from behind and scare it in your direction, while you will hide behind that hillock and grab it when it comes by.me: You are my brother. bbg: We move now.Unfortunately, it got away. Later, I found out that you can buy a fully-functional alive chicken for less than some chicken entrees in Kampala.