Chapter 1: Sisi and Baba

Two stray cats dey downstairs for our compound. Any time food show, my daughter go always feed only one, she go just bone the other one like say e no dey.

For this compound, everybody sabi the cats—one wey dem dey call “Sisi,” the other na “Baba.” Every morning, as I dey sweep sand and mango leaves from our corridor, the air dey thick with dust and gist from neighbours, my daughter go just bounce down, plastic plate of leftover rice for hand. She go dey sing, “Sisi, Sisi, come chop!” like small market woman. As she dey do am, Baba go just siddon one side, head bend, eyes dey beg, but my pikin no dey even look him side. Even if Sisi finish and Baba try come near, my daughter go stretch her small leg like she dey play suwe, blocking Baba with stubborn face. Sometimes, our security man, Mallam Danlami, go just shake head talk, “Dis pikin too get strong mind o!”

I even notice say if food dey inside the other cat bowl, my daughter fit just waka quietly, pack am, troway for gutter.

One Saturday evening, I catch her for staircase, dey pick Baba food throw inside gutter. Her face tight with concentration, like say she dey do secret mission. The way she dey look Baba, you go think say na thief wey steal her biscuit.

I ask am why she dey do like that, but wetin she talk shock me: “That cat na male. No male get sense. Make e just starve die.”

The thing shock me reach bone, my phone almost fall from my hand. The way she talk am—no male get sense—e be like say she don rehearse am for mirror. I squat down, hand for her shoulder, ask gently, “Ah-ahn, so you dey talk say no male get sense, but your papa na male—so me too I no get sense?”