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like. He must be all that for this fight to continue for almost three years until Suiven was married off to a Fai from another compound in
Vekovi
. I heard that he had lots of cattle and children and she would be his sixth wife. I thought it was good for her because her breasts would finally be put to good use.
    After bathing, we ate a miserable cold breakfast of
mbu’lam
, which was roasted three days in advance. Sola’s mother fried her eggs with palm oil, and we watched hungrily, the enchanting smell being our closest taste of the delicacy. It made me wish that I were Ma’s only child. Maybe she would spoil me with eggs too. Sheseldom made eggs, and if she did, Yenla and I had to share one. Only my brothers ate full eggs. Ma believed that since they were men, they deserved it.
    The only time we ate a full egg each was when Pa was around. He barked at Ma to feed his children properly and quit all this nonsense talk about men and women. I wish I could give Pa a medal for how correct he was.
    Sometimes, our days were spent on the farm, grazing
bveys
and planting or harvesting millet, and the evenings ended with stories around the fireside, picking huckleberry vegetables. We called this chore
tangrii nyoosji
, and I really despised it. It could eat about five hours of your day, and one’s hands would be black and bitter, stained from the residue of huckleberry.
    We roasted
saar
, plums, and plantains if it was the right season and listened to our grandmother, Ya Ayeni, tell stories. The village would be silent but for the occasional cluster of noise and fire in every other quarter. We had assembled to hear and share folktales and life lessons. Most of us didn’t go to school, so storytelling was the main way by which the wise ones disseminated knowledge to the young.
    Even though I despised being from a polygamous family, it wasn’t all that bad, honestly. Truth is, polygamy had its upside as well. Mainly that, at night, just like most families, we sat in big round circles around the fire telling stories and eating groundnuts.
    Our neighbors from other compounds joined us partly because they wanted to eat groundnuts, which not everyone could afford, and also because they wanted to be friends with us so we would give them gifts like linen, which Pa brought from Yola.
    What else could one do at night without electricity? The stories were simply phenomenal! People might think an illiterate person was stupid because they hadn’t gone to the white man’s school, but our imagination and life experience were as crucial as thread in a needle when sewing. We survived the hectic farming schedules because we looked forward to nightfall. It was the one time when no one was more important than the other. We were all equals.
    The storyteller, mainly Ya Ayeni, called out in her high-pitched grandmotherly voice, “
Ma’ Nganndo
!” and we chanted after her
“Ndzengon
.” Then she asked a rhetorical question, “the longest rope on earth is?” to which we responded “the road” andeveryone burst out laughing, even Kpulajey. I smiled at her, but I didn’t taste the groundnuts from her plate when she offered. It wasn’t often that we shared a connection. Such moments were as nonexistent as a pregnant man.
    With wandering eyes, I listened to these tales, and I was always forced to examine Ma Ayeni’s blind eye closely * . I wondered if tears came out from that eye when she cried.
    “Tell us about
Naa’
,” Sola requested gleefully.
    “No. I want to hear of
Wanyeeto and Bah
,” my oldest brother Fonlon cut in. I hardly ever saw him, so his voice was somewhat unfamiliar. I was intrigued at the way his intense, small eyes seemed sad, but his smile told a happy story at the same time.
    A rowdy squabble over which folktale we wanted to hear ensued, and after eventually picking one, we sat under the starry skies, listening to tales about lands that existed in other universes far far away.
    Among the phenomenal storytellers was