By Emmanuel Fashakin
In response to a newly bulging midriff, I resumed my morning exercise in February 2017. Due to the difficulty of squeezing in the time in the busy morning hours, I resorted to jogging on the spot while doing other stuff like brushing my teeth and shaving. Occasional accidents are inevitable, and that was what happened on a bright morning in early February 2017, which resulted in my taking a dime-sized split-thickness skin graft from my scalp, at the junction of my parietal and occipital regions, on the right side of my head. Luckily, the bleeding stopped quickly and Abraham my then 8-year-old son applied a large bandage to cover the wound.
All through the day, my patients expressed their sympathy for my head wound. Towards the end of the day, a young Afghani lady, whom I had known and treated as a child, brought her husband to see me. The Afghani lady was sitting in a chair behind me and saw the head wound. Expressing concern, she asked: “Doctor, what happened to your head? Trying to sound brave, I quickly responded: “there were six of them attacking me in a dark alley, I floored four of them with my kicks and punches, but one them slid behind me and broke a bottle on my head.” The lady, who was probably used to my jokes over the years, saw through my fib and simply smiled, but I was surprised to see the sheer terror in the husband’s eyes. “How did you escape, Doc? How did it happen? etc.” I told him to relax, that I was simply joking. Then he told me his story.
Five years ago, he arrived in New York from Pakistan, and speaking little English and finding no other work, he took up the job of manning the fried chicken store for a fellow Afghan in the fella’s Brooklyn location. Everything went well at first, but one night, a young man came to his store, announced that he was a gang member and that he needs three pieces of chicken — for free. My patient said he replied that he was not going to give him the chicken without paying. He said that the gang member threatened him, but he refused to give him the chicken. The gang member said that he was going to beat him up, and he replied: “look man, I am working now, and I am not ready for a fight. Come back at 9 p.m. when I finish my shift and I will give you a good fight.”
At nine o’clock, my patient stepped out of the store, and true enough, the gang man was there. But he wasn’t alone, he had two other guys with him. One of the men carried a switchblade, and the other seemed to have a bulge in his right pocket. “You’re ready for a fight?”, the gangman asked cheerfully. My patient said “yeah, I am ready, let’s do it”, standing his ground. The three men were completely taken aback by his bravery. One of them asked him “you wanna die?” The three men conferred among themselves, one said “let’s do it”, but they decided to leave him alone. They backed off and disappeared into the night.
The next morning he related the story to his boss. The boss almost had a stroke, and yelled: “you did what?”. My patient told the boss that “since you did not tell me to give the chicken out free, giving it out to anyone without payment under any circumstances is ‘haram’ to me.” The boss told him: “you don’t understand. People get killed in Brooklyn for stuff like that all the time. The next time a gang member comes and asks for three pieces of chicken, give him five, the chicken is not worth dying for”. He told the boss that he now understood.
Just a few days later, a man staggered into the store alone, panting and sweating. He explained that he and his boys are hungry that he needs five chicken pieces immediately and that there was no money. He gave him eight pieces and wrapped them up carefully, and the man sauntered out of the store. A few nights later on the way home, my patient ran into the gangman on the Subway Train platform. The gangman said, “ah chicken store man, thanks for the chicken the other day. I now have money to pay you.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a large wad of money and thrust some at him. “here”, he said. “Your cooperation saved me from committing a murder. That night, I had a gun on me, and if you had not given me the chicken, I would have killed you!”
I know from experience with another patient that it was not an idle threat. About nine years earlier, Barak, another Afghani immigrant, was a supervisor in a chicken store when he heard commotion about someone taking chicken without paying in front of the store. As he ran towards the commotion, the man drew a knife and thrust it into his right eye. He lost the eye and almost lost his life from orbital infections. He almost died and has remained disabled till today.
So, if you come to New York City, especially Brooklyn, and someone asks you “your life or your chicken?”, please say “my life”, because pieces of chicken are not worth dying for.
Emmanuel O. Fashakin, M.D., FMCS(Nig), FWACS, FRCS(Ed), FAAFP, Esq.
Attorney at Law & Medical Director,
Abbydek Family Medical Practice, P.C.
Web address: http://www.abbydek.com
Cell phone: +1-347-217-6175
“Primum non nocere”
