One early evening after Papa and I had come home from clearing bush to make a new farm, Teacher came to our house which was on the left side of Worteken if you were facing theAtlantic. The sun was changing from yellow to orange before it left for the day, and Papa was sitting on the porch fanning himself with a piece of cardboard while drinking some palm wine he had tapped yesterday.  Mama was busy in the kitchen dishing up fufu and goat soup.

“Oh, Teacha, hello-o,” Papa’s smile looked like a laugh because of the gap between  his brown front teeth. “Wha you doin’ in town?” He didn’t wait for an answer, “Come  sit down ‘n eat, de foo will soon be ready.”

They shook hands and snapped fingers. Teacher said thank , but he didn’t have  time to eat because he was only in town for a quick trip and needed to run after several things. When Mama came out to set the table, Teacher hugged her hello and asked herto stay for a few minutes because he wanted to tell them something.

He sat in the rattan chair in front of Papa and said, “I brought up Gunoweh’s name to the new chief of the big school in Harper where I work now.” I was sitting on the floor in the corner of the porch stretching my ears to hear and hoping I would not be told to leave. Mama took a seat next to Papa in the last of the three chairs we had. “The chief and his wife are looking for somebody to help around their house. They said they will treat the person the same way they treat their own three children. And. . . ” Teacher was smiling the way he used to when a student answered a tough question in class, “. . . they will pay for the person to go to school.”

The last part made my old people nod their heads as red-headed lizards do when they are not running here and there.  Then Teacher said: “I put my head on the chopping board with Mr. and Mrs. Cooper—the chief and his wife—because Gunoweh is hardworking, clever, and knows how to listen to old people.”

“Da one da true,” Mama offered.

Papa was smiling, sitting tall like he did for two straight days after the chief of Worteken made him one of the judges in town. Mama and Papa asked a few questions that Teacher answered; their looks said that what they heard was okay. Would they let me go? It was April, beginning of planting time, and there was so much to do.  You could still smell smoke from the burning of new farms. I was worried Papa would  say no.

Mama and Papa ate together for the first time in a long time after Teacher left.  And they talked. I left the porch to take bath and was coming back to tell them goodnight when I heard Papa say: “I will suffa on de farm wiffout Gunoweh, boh when he lehn book, he will be ayboh to hep us mo.”

My heart beat my chest as though hard knocks on a door, kpoh, kpoh, kpoh. Harper. School.  I wanted to jump outside and tell them I would make them proud, wanted to hug Mama as well as Papa though men didn’t do such things where I’m from. I heard myself laughing inside when I told my parents goodnight. My two sisters and brother were already sleeping when I got to our room so I lay on my mat and saw myself getting out of high school—maybe even going to college—getting a job, sending money to help my family, then coming back to Worteken a hero, like my great great Grandpa, my namesake. It was a long time before the songs from the bullfrogs, grasshoppers, fireflies and unknown animals of the night came to my ears and took me to sleep.