Our rooster crowed four times the day my life began to end.
<p>My father had arrived home before me for the first time ever specifically requesting to see me.<br />
“Your father wants to see you. He has been waiting in his obi. Ada, you know that your father is not a patient man.” My mother had told me in Igbo.<br />
My father was feared both in and outside of his household. With long hands that could stretch out and plug ichekus or the low hanging fruit of the mango, he towered over everyone whether he meant to or not. He was an imposing man and very glad to be one.<br />
“Papa, you sent for me.” I knelt before him. The women in our home knelt when speaking to him. I cannot remember if he commanded it or if it was a unanimous decision to not stand up to him. My step brother Chike sat in the obi with him. Sitted or kneeling like I was, there was no doubt the terror that sat in our eyes from having to exist so closely in our father’s presence.<br />
“I have accepted a husband on your behalf. He and his people will be here in a fortnight. Tell your mother to prepare you for them.”<br />
“Papa, I have a man who is interested in me.” I managed to stutter out.</p>
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