Last year christmas, i had a strange dream. My father and i went to the market in reminiscent of bus drivers and troublesome conductors, as thousands of thousands of people flood the market, we went to the fishmonger to buy native chicken( ‘Okuko’ in igbo language). The fowls crowded, slimy, around our legs, and I knew (in the way that one knows in a dream) that they thought, as they ate from the ground, that they were going to be killed—that they had to experience death before entering adulthood. The next day, I told my father about the dream. He revealed that, when I was three, when we were living in Ajegunle( A neighbourhood located in the heart of lagos ), he took me to see a truckful of poultry being pumped into an artificial house. I was too young to remember this. But somewhere in my mind the vision of chickens being butchered and spewed into less breathing had lodged itself, resurfacing more than 10 years later. These days, it’s common to...