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Yewa pulled at the clear plastic that covered the seats and lights and mudguards, until Fofo warned her not to remove them.
    “I get someting for
vous,
” Fofo Kpee said to calm us down. He sank into his bed and dug into the portmanteau and offered us little cones of peanuts and half-melted toffees from his pocket, which we chewed in the wrappers. That night Fofo didn’t tell us stories about which he laughed louder than we did. He brought out a bottle of Niyya guava juice and poured us a drink. “Hey,
temps de celebration,
” Fofo Kpee said. “We tank God!”
    “We bless his name!” we responded.
    He raised his cup. “Ah, we no create poverty. . . . Cheers
à la
Nanfang!”
    “Cheers!” we responded, tipping our cups.
    It had been a long time since we had fruit juice. Yewa drank hers immediately, in one long endless gulp, tilting the cup so quickly that the juice poured from both sides of her face and dribbled onto her belly, thick red teardrops. I took one gulp and stopped, thinking it would be better to save the juice until dinner, and went to set my cup down on a safe spot between the lantern stand and the wall.
    The excitement of that night was such that when we finally descended on the Abakaliki rice and stew of onions,
kpomo,
and palm oil, we didn’t mind if we found little pebbles in the rice. No matter how thoroughly you picked the rice for stones, you couldn’t get rid of all of them. Now, occasionally, we cracked a pebble, held our jaws, and washed down the half-chewed food with juice. Though Fofo Kpee used to scold me each time he bit into a pebble, because it was my job to pick the rice, that night he didn’t. We were celebrating our Nanfang. And with my stingy sips of juice, I could stand any amount of sand in the rice that night.
    When I got down to the last gulp, I stopped and saved it. I had water instead and ate and drank until my stomach filled up, the palm oil in the stew yellowing my lips. Then I downed the rest of the juice so the taste would remain in my mouth until I went to bed.

    “ KOTCHIKPA , MY BOY , QUICK quick, go prepare de inner room for de Nanfang!” Fofo Kpee told me after dinner.
    “Yes, Fofo Kpee,” I said.
    “Let the Nanfang stay here!” Yewa appealed to him. She was still jumping up and down, celebrating.
    “Ah
non,
my gal,” Fofo said. “Next room for Nanfang.”
    “I shall sleep inside, then,” my sister said, bowing her head to her chest and looking sad. “With Nanfang.”
    “
Je dis non,
Yewa,” Fofo insisted, and tried to change the subject: “I go buy tree new book for you. Your teacher go
dey
happy well well for you now, yes?”
    “I don’t want books,” Yewa said.
    “Hmmm, you no want book?” he asked. “
D’accord,
new
crayons?
Pencils?”
    She shook her head. “I want to sleep
avec
Nanfang . . .”
    “
Haba!
” Fofo Kpee shut her up.
    Yewa sat down on the floor in protest, facing the machine, her back to us. Fofo went over and squatted behind her and caressed her shoulders, while she shrugged and tried to push him off.
    “Ah,
mon
Yewa,
mon
Yewa,” he sweet-talked her, “you go learn how to write. You be future professor!”
    “No,” Yewa said, shaking her head vigorously, as if a bug had just entered her nostril. Yewa was like that when she set her mind on something, stubborn and saying little.
    “Ah
non,
you no want be
agbero
like me,
oui?
”
    “Leave me alone.”
    Fofo leaned over to pour more juice into her cup, but she refused.
    “Why you no want be good gal today?” he said. “Well, Kotchikpa no go write for you. Everyone must learn to write. Education
est
one person, one vote.”
    Yewa was silent.
    “Yewa,
tu es toujours un bébé!
” I said, trying to coax her out of her stubbornness. “Crybaby!”
    “Leave me alone.”
    “
Oya,
I go buy you sandal for school” Fofo Kpee begged her. She still didn’t get up, so Fofo stood, shrugged, and came and sat on his bed and faced me. “Kotchikpa,
je t’acheterai
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