My earliest memory of me standing up for something or probably anything was at the age of six. When I gulped mid-sized bolus of eba immersed in oily, spicy egwusi soup and when I displayed my lame dance steps to the beats of Rosemary Chukwu’s “Kunie nu n’oge eruwo” in our wide sitting room. At school, I would proudly say to the others, “I am Igbo” when my origin was misplaced for another tribe. It was my pride, my identity and something I felt anyone should tuck in their breast pocket and caress at different time interval. Before the arrival of our cushions and settee, our sitting room served as our ‘Maracana.’ My tiny legs would fire shots from end to end of the large room while I watched in delight as my cousin, Uju scrambled to chase the yellow Aladin- designed rubber ball that served as one of my birthday gifts. Who in this world gifts a girl-child a ball? Our neighbourhood was usually quiet by day and as dusk announced its arrival, it was not unusual to...