The aroma of roasted chicken and peri-peri sauce wafted through the air as you entered the bustling restaurant. You knew it was a bad idea to come here, knowing full well you were supposed to be fasting, but your stomach was screaming louder than your conscience.
'This is not a good idea, Elsie,' you muttered to yourself, your gaze nervously flitting around the room.
You weren't truly convinced about fasting, but your aunt Beatrice, a devout Christian with a flair for the dramatic, had convinced you. 'Fasting, my dear, cleanses your soul,' she had said, her eyes shining with spiritual zeal. 'It brings you closer to God. Imagine, you'll be like the saints!'
You tried valiantly for a day, but your willpower was as fragile as a newly-hatched butterfly confronting a hungry hawk. That's how you ended up here, standing in line at one of Lusaka's most popular chicken joints.
As you reached the counter, you felt a tap on your shoulder. You turned to see Pastor Emmanuel, your pastor, grinning widely, his face radiating a kind of saintly joviality.
'Elsie, my dear girl!' he boomed, his voice echoing through the noisy restaurant. 'Fancy meeting you here! What brings you to this wonderful establishment?'
You felt your cheeks flush a bright crimson.
'Uh, well, Pastor…,' you stammered, trying to come up with a feeble excuse. Your mind, clouded with chicken-induced guilt, drew a blank.
Pastor Emmanuel chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement. 'Don't tell me you're fasting,' he said, raising an eyebrow, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. 'I thought you said you were on a 21-day, juice-only cleanse.'
You wanted to melt into the floor.
'I… I am,' you mumbled, looking around frantically as if hoping the floor would swallow you whole. 'But… I decided to… uh… take a break.'
'A break!' Pastor Emmanuel exclaimed, erupting into laughter that echoed through the restaurant. 'Elsie, you're a riot!'
He pointed at the counter where a queue of hungry patrons waited.
'We can't be seen as hypocrites, Elsie,' he whispered, chuckling. 'But a little bit of chicken every now and then won't hurt, will it?'
You shook your head, realizing you were caught in a hilarious act of hypocrisy.
'You know,' Pastor Emmanuel continued, his eyes sparkling. 'I've been feeling a bit peckish myself. I was on a fast too!'
He lowered his voice in a mock conspiratorial whisper. 'But as one of God's special children, I decided to allow myself a very small treat. It's called, 'God's Special Fried Chicken'!'
He chuckled again, a deep and warm sound, and winked.
You found yourself laughing, the tension dissolving as quickly as the delicious aroma of fried chicken filled your nostrils.
'You know what, Pastor,' you said, a smile spreading across your face. 'Let's indulge in a little bit of God's Special Fried Chicken together.'
And then, you ordered two portions of 'God's Special Fried Chicken,' giggling at the irony of it all, and savoring the delicious taste of forbidden, chicken-filled joy.
As you ate, surrounded by the lively chatter of the restaurant, you realised that God, in his infinite wisdom, wouldn't mind a little culinary transgression every now and then. After all, even saints, it seemed, were not immune to the allure of a good piece of fried chicken.
