The Kuyes have been fighting. The Kuyes have also been hungry. These two problems go hand in hand.
To tell their story is to travel backwards on several beaten paths at once, in search of where their journey began. I will be your guide. In this tale, there will be wars and rumours of wars. Plagues, famine, and weeping sores. You will hear of witchcraft and superstitions and the new gospel that was spreading further upwards into the country—word of new churches opening in Oye had reached Ejiba. But a story heard only with ears is half told. For this story to be fully told, you must open your mouths in shock as we join Mama Aramide, of renowned fame in the markets of Aramoko, as she sees her only daughter, Aramide, vomiting by the tangerine tree next to the gate.
One moment, Aramide was sweeping the yard, clouds of dust rushing forward and collapsing in waves. The next, Aramide was doubled over, hand against peeling bark, ridding her stomach of the early morning ogi and akara she’d eaten reluctantly under her mother’s watchful eye. Mama Aramide stood in the shadow of the doorway, saying nothing. The day was still young; her suspicions could still be proven wrong.
They were not. The sky continued to yawn brightly as lone skinny clouds drifted across, and then the land cooled and a gentle chill came on the breath of the evening breeze. Through it all, Mama Aramide’s eyes followed her daughter. The girl darted to the farm behind the house as soon as she had emptied iru onto a tray and placed it in the sun to dry. She walked around the compound, huffing and puffing, holding her lower back, complaining that it was sore from harvesting yams the day before. By nightfall, Mama Aramide knew what must happen.
