My mother's name was Jemima—a champion business woman whose fame and large heart spread far and near.
Then , there was fourteen year old me, a girl with more biceps than a bodybuilder. My physique was the fodder for many idle fora, particularly of male constituents. There were indeed fears for the drinking glass in my hands—I wish it ended there; fears for the man who would eventually marry me . It did not matter that mother had nagged about executing chores with grace becoming of a woman , for several seasons without success. I thought hard work meant energy; exuberance was raw energy; everything called for a mustering of power; even the most mundane task— i slayed them ( with the ardour of a warrior) . The energy the mortar gave off when I pounded yam, left much to be desired : it meant nothing .
Thank God oestrogen showed its graciousness in my late teens and gave me a female body — though artifacts of the old habitus remained. I lost my adolescence too early in its season because I ran my mother's house.
When mother brought him, he was very adorable , allowing us lift him every now and then. He ate the traditional goat fodder and peelings from our kitchen which mother advised that we 'spiced up' a little , saying that " goats have taste buds you know ". We did spice things up only when she was around . My brothers dutifully swept his pen , laying the ground with dry foliage on alternate days. Foolish animal ! He would pee and shit into his food . This shit disturbed Nenyenwa greatly . She never tired of exclaiming 'kwekwe' whenever she alighted on them— it did not matter that they were uncountable; all elicited same response from her . To be honest , I had no time for Chieekwekwe. He might as well die of common cold for all I care. Wasn't he just a goat? So much ado for a goat . He wasn't the only animal in the house — did i say animal? pet in the house?