My father’s wives sneer at me 
They tell me I have two left legs 
That marriage will never come my way 
That love will not find its way to me 
That I was born when the moon hid from the world 
That year when famine ravaged the village and the earth rejected crops
That my mother went into labor in the village square on the day the masquerades danced 
That a child born during the dance of the masquerades was destined to die
That my mother died while giving birth to me
That I dwelled for 3 months in Ọ̀ṣúnyọyin home while I went through a ceremonial cleanse
That I was at the crossroads of heaven and earth while the priestesses appeased the gods 
That at 3 months when my feet were firmly rooted in the earth, none of them wanted me 
That on my return home, my father was the only one who cared for me 
That my large, brown, eyes that refused to produce tears were a curse 
That my healthy body that rejected sickness was a sign of my conjoinment with the spirit world

I stare at them blankly
The stories they tell are not new 
The assumptions they make are not novel
The market women pretend to close their stalls when I visit
The mothers warn their children not to play with me 
The men flee when they see me 

But my father tells a different story 
That my birth brought wealth 
That my existence brought peace 
That I am his light 
That if the men do not come, his house is big enough
That I am the Yéwándé
That I sought him out
That I am his mother and I cannot lack