Akpa Agbugbo.


                             Akpa agbugbo is the Igbo name for the Rhinoceros Beetle grub. Akpa Agbugbo simply means-- the grub of the compost pile.
There are other "akpa"s, like the larva of the beetle which attacks the palm trees and devastates them if not discovered on time. There is the "akpa" or "agu" ngwo, which attacks the raffia palm tree by the rivers. Humans had a way of fighting back and saving their palm and raffia trees. With no insecticides available, thank goodness ,they extracted these grubs, carefully and skillfully, and after carefully processing the waste out of them, fried or roasted them and enjoyed very tasty delicacies, alone or tossed with other nutritious dishes.
        The akpa agbugbo -----the compost pile grub, however helped in turning the compost pile faster, reducing the biodegradable waste into usable manure for gardening and farming. However, when the grubs changed into the rhinoceros beetles, they end up damaging palm trees, an undesirable
development.

 In the old days, in the process of turning the compost or taking manure from the compost pile, the grubs emerge, fat and wiggly, and end up very healthy nourishing snacks or  meals for children and adults as well, and they taste great, nutty and chewy. They blended well with different salads and dishes or alone, roasted in the open fire as a chewy snack, combined with palm kernels, roasted corn, roasted groundnuts(peanuts), and other snacks, and they were good, and from what I know now, life sustaining too. They were popular in the rural communities during planting season, in the good old days.
They were actually very useful---curbing hunger, nurturing bodies and reducing the compost to great manure---a farmer's delight.
Next time you see a grub, take a second look. They are great------and actually useful!

Last week I was narrating how a fox repeatedly killed some of my chickens and the last time, he had killed one of my happiest hens. After that attack, I was wondering if the attack was carried out by a pack of coyotes, but my son and his friend were adamant that the culprit was a fox
Read on:


I was skeptical and I remained skeptical
Until the last attack; so typical, and
Miss Hen was attacked and killed.

I felt bad for the attack
The chicken house was secure this time.
I had let the chicks out just before sunset
My plan was to get them in one hour.
My music drowned out the noise.
I heard nothing-
"Are the chicks out?" My son came out asking
" They are making noise behind my window"

I ran outside to see---and there was
The frizzled rooster, always ready to fight.
He flashed before the door in a hurried trot-
I ran in the direction of his flight
And there before my very eyes was--
A fox, a big fox, the size of a medium dog,
A fiery color, and a bushy tail-
 running off right in front of me.

If I had a rock,or a stick
I could reached  him with a hi--
He was that close, running,
On his way to the fence.
I was so startled, I couldn't do a thing.
I was happy he was already on his way
And not attacking me, by the way.

Miss Hen was on the grass panting,
Blood dripping from her beak, bright red,
Down and feathers all around
And death around the bend.
There was nothing I could do,
She was dead within minutes.
Her two sisters made off safe.
I found the rooster collapsed in the grass
Quite a distance from the scene.
His frizzled wings spread out like shields.
He looked dead, but was surely alive;
There was no sign of bleeding, but
Something was obviously wrong.
He could not stand or hold his head up.
It was hard to decide what to do with him;
Couldn't get myself to put him down.

He would not eat or drink for three days,
Even with food and drink close by.
By the fourth day, he started coming back to life
Lifting up his head, eating some,
drinking some, but no crowing
No threats of fighting anybody
He was nursing his battered body.
In the past, after charging for a fight,
Wings spread, claws in the air,
He would land, trot around
And then puff up and crow-
A deliberate drawn-out crow,
Head jerking back and forth.
" The rooster's victory crow"
My son used to call it.

He never charges anymore-
Now he moves slowly away, eyeing
us carefully, but,
His crow is back-
Elaborate and drawn out,just as before-
He looks out for himself and the chicks-
Making warning sounds -
As if to say-
"Danger! hide, do something-
The monster is back-
They run to hide, or trot around-
Makin noise.

I had buried Miss Hen behind the chicken house-
And put an oak seedling on her grave.
The chicks can see it from the roost-
Not that they know or give a hoot.


This past Easter, we picked up more birds
All chicks, No ducks
Different breeds-
Diversity-----


To be continued next week---a diversity issue is on  the range.

Goodbye Miss Hen.

 Over the Easter season, a local Farm Equipment outlet sells chicks and ducklings. For the past few years, my son and I buy a few and raise them.
We have had run ins with predators stealing some of our chickens. Finally recently we saw the culprit in the act. He did his grizzly deed again, but we caught him in the act. He did not do a lot of damage this time, but he killed the best hen in the chucken house. Read on :

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I had named her Miss Hen; for she was so dainty-
Her brown plumage, speckled with white around the neck.
Her healthy chicken legs, bony and thin, were strong.
They were ringed in yellow, ending in sharp spiky claws--
Great for scratching and digging-
for treasures from the eyes hidden.

The chicks- as my son called them-
There were four of them-
Three Rhode Island reds, hens,
And a shiny black frizzle rooster.
He looks like a ball of rough black yarn with a bright red crest
On his small rooster head.
He was always ready for a fight
In defense of the chicks and himself.

Miss Hen would stand behind the door, clucking happily
ready to burst out, half running, half flying
As I let them out of the chicken house to scratch and graze around-
And near the chicken house, close to the house.

With those sharp claws,quickly,
They got to work, scratching, inspecting and-
retrieving any edible find-
Rhinoceros beetles larvae--grubs
Fat and wiggly-
Grasshoppers, crickets, ants, earthworms-
Seeds, anything hidden beneath the pile of fallen leaves.
Other kinds of beetles and spiders surface, all
Scratched up with alternating feet, claws fully engaged
To expose  smorgasbords of chicken delight.

After the last attack, the second one actually,
For it had happened the year before, weeks after Easter
Just as the chicks were maturing into brooders
The culprit hit and made a clean swoop-
Leaving chicken feathers all over the yard
And nothing left in the chicken house.

I was angry with that creature.
How could he kill eleven chickens in such a short time?
How greedy can he be? Or was it a nursing mother
Hunting for her little ones?
For the next Easter, the chicken house was fortified
Really fortified.
Pinned to the ground, like a mobile home
Thoroughly modified, with the top like a dome.
It was a lot of work and it showed.
Fox-proof, as my son described it
Hours of work put in by him and his friend, Alex-
Fox-proof indeed!


For months, it was fox-proof
Then something happened.
The proof failed
The fox railed
He did not like the proof
We did not hear the noise-
He slaughtered thirteen  of seventeen chickens.
Some were decapitated and the heads left behind.
A pile of  mixed color down and feathers left behind
Like a pile of artwork done by a sculptor.

It looked  like a crime scene from the chicken world
Waiting for inspector Rooster to arrive with his team
And gather evidence to find out whodunit.
Just like the children's book tales.
But this was real as a matter of fact.
Thirrteen adolescent chickens, full,of life
Brutally murdered, just like that.


A fox! my son  and Alex had concluded.
Tracking paw prints, just like the first time.
"The culprit is still a fox" they insisted
"No Way" I had said
"No Way!"
No fox can can kill so many chickens in such little time.
"A fox " they insisted.
" Too many chickens died, in such a short time, maybe a coyote" I argued
"A fox" they insisted
Coyotes strike at night under the cover of darkness
This fox struck at dusk, still some daylight.


To be continued next weekend.