Many people think of polygamy as an orthodox practice that certainly doesn’t subscribe to the modern-day practice and perspective. This is because a lot of people have subscribed to the newly adopted doctrines of religion. Making Christianity an appreciated excuse to discourage the practice of one man to many women, or maybe people think it is easier to live with the responsibility of catering for one woman and three children or less.

Where I come from, all of these principles or ideologies don’t exist; a man is expected to marry as many women as his strength can support, and you are perceived to be less than a man if you stick to one woman. Rather than people assuming that you simply wanted a simple life, you are rather presumed to be poor. Typically, in Yalwan Dari where I come from, a man is measured by his wealth, which is largely predicated on how many wives, children, farmlands, and barns he has. The harvest is richer, faster, and cheaper by employing the labourers you have naturally begotten.

Living through polygamy is a lifestyle in itself. Every morning in the Ahmad’s household smelt of hard work, especially during the harvest season. The children of the household were already awake and on our way to our father’s plantations. We got tilling even before the cock crowed. Breakfast was a foreign idea in my house. It almost seemed like you had to earn every meal you got. The first meal, especially during the harvest season, was almost at midday. It was roasted yam and oil. Certainly, it was the freshly harvested yams, and it made the meal even better. Everything was a struggle.

We competed amongst ourselves for who was the hardest working because in appreciation for your hard work, the golden laden is handed to your mother. You would think there would be a direct reward for working hard, possibly be my father’s favourite child but unfortunately, Mr. Ahmad had no favourites; not a favourite child nor a favourite wife.

He had mastered the act of treating everyone equally. He never compromised on any aspect of his role as a father towards any of his children, and by extension, we grew up knowing that you had to earn his attention, even though you get only a wink, a hard smile and a joke in your favour or simply a pat on the back in recognition for your hard work. Your mother got to be treated to anything she asked for that wasn’t too much for my father to do or provide. Our mothers mostly asked for extra coins to sew new school uniforms or any other need they had to meet, which largely was always in the interest of their children.

I had five stepmothers and twenty –three siblings in total. Mrs Aminat; my mother, had just five children: Adamu, Sadiq, Yusuf, Amira, and me. Amongst my father’s wives, my mother was the third wife and the least schooled, and most times I could read from situations that she felt timid and privileged to be amongst the other wives. She had made a resolve that her children would be best schooled as much as she could afford it. Each wife had their farms which was secondary to my father’s. His farmlands took priority over any other. His fields would be tilled and planted before any other, so all the children and wives saw to it that all was ready before the seasons were over.

I wouldn’t say the relationship among my siblings were the best. All twenty-three of us had to look for a way to exist in the same compound, even though each wife had her chambers which she occupied with her children. We had to struggle for everything. We competed for our father’s love and attention, for who had the largest meal, who earned what and who gets to till with the best farming tools. More often than not, we found ourselves fighting over everything. Life was a struggle.

My mother thought that getting out of the circle was the best option for me to pave the path for my younger ones to follow. So, she saw to it that I went through school and succeeded past the village level and into the university. Getting admission into the University of Jos wasn’t an experience I wanted to keep in my memory. The countless trials and errors frustrated me so much that I lost hope in myself. I kept pushing on, solely dependent on my mother’s hope. I applied countless times and kept retaking the JAMB examinations, even with meeting the cut-off mark for the course I hoped to undertake, which at the time was a hundred and eighty. Subsequently, the cut-off increased to two hundred. I still achieved the cut, but there was no admission. Apparently, I had to know someone to get in. Every day felt too slow, and everything was less interesting. Sometimes I wish I had lower expectations; I wouldn’t have had to bother about going to the university. I would simply get old enough to inherit one of my father’s lands and become a successful farmer as well. But in an attempt to defy the odds, I am stuck in an endless portal.

My mother poured her heart and sweat into the palms of one of the staff in the admissions office to get me admission. I got admitted to study civil engineering and the pressure continued. I still had to struggle to make my mother’s dreams and hard work count. Being in an environment that was strange and more competitive than I had imagined was the first, but if I was determined to move further from where I was coming from, then I had to fight through and against the odds.

Going through school got tougher as the day went by, and my mother did the most she could. The tuition fees for a federal university kept skyrocketing by the year. By the time I was in my third year, I could barely feed. The old tale I was told of how it is reasonable to go to a federal university because it was tuition-friendly and encouraged quality education has become a fallacy. Those stories didn’t add up, I had to pay through every course I took.

The burden became unbearable. The idea of reading to pass had become an ancient theory that no longer applies. The new order was “pay to pass”. Every strike embarked on by the lecturers was a break to enable the student to acquire money by any means possible and when the negotiations certainly end in a deadlock, and the lecturers resumed back to school, the student make up for what the government has been unable to pay. Isn’t it ironic that students can afford to pay what the Government couldn’t?

I was swamped with pressure to measure up, and then I met Michael. He was an average height, clear eyes, and dark-skinned young man with a visible mark around the left side of his head very close to his eyes. There was never a time that I stared at his face and didn’t resist the urge to ask about the scare. For all I cared, he could be into some very rough things that have earned him a scare, this visible. He was a student that never seemed to lack. He drove the best cars and his grade was very commendable. I aspired to be like him. Initially, he thought I wasn’t a match to be associated with but my persistence gave me a chance with him. As we hung out a couple of times, I got more familiar with the rest of his friends and I realised they had the perfect result and they barely struggled with anything. Also, the scar on Mike’s face was his birthmark, which laid my spirit to rest but I wouldn’t say I didn’t wonder why the birthmark chose his face. Judging from where I come from, their lives and realities have only been a fiction of my imagination but that was about to change.

My association with new friends gave me some sense of recognition amongst our peers and other students. Associating with Michael didn’t only increase my taste for the good things in life, it also improved my grades and certainly, I became more attractive to the opposite sex. At this time, after spending a lot of time with Mike and his friends who by extension had become my new friends, I was earning a lot of money. After all that was all that mattered. I paid my tuition fees without struggling and I acquired a few luxurious items that I cherished so much and by extension, these items made me look made. I began to see the ladies as being attractive. Before now I thought they were mere distractions and wanted nothing to do with them. But right now, at this time, I felt I could afford them and I had time for a little distraction.

Cecilia was a tall and light-skinned lady, her eyes shone like the sun and her dentition was perfectly arranged by the creator. Her smile was capable of warming the heart of anyone who caught a glimpse of it. She was a beauty to behold but I guess I preferred to admire her from a distance.

Months went by and life was better than I imagined. I had begun to get through school like I had imagined. My future was promising and I was looking forward to graduation. I knew that life would be better and the money I had acquired with the help of my new associates would be a stepping stone to greater investments that would help me get a better life to support my siblings and fulfil the lifelong dream of my mother and hopefully I get a warm smile from my father for rising above average.

Life wasn’t as it was in my head. I succeeded in becoming the employer of my lecturers as I progressed through each level. I had a remarkable presence in my faculty, a lot of students knew my friends and i. Most people reverend our lifestyle and wanted to mingle. I guess what you present yourself to be is what people cared about the most and never who you were. I feared that was how Cecilia would perceive me and was never encouraged to get closer to her. The sad reality of life, I guess.

One very promising morning, the sky was handsomely bright. The morning sun had blessed the earth with its beam and the air blew warmly across my face, immediately I opened the door to my apartment. I couldn’t help but appreciate its blessing with a warm smile. I didn’t know if I was smiling because of the feel of the morning breeze across my face or the pretty lady who had just passed right in front of me with a beautiful smile on her face as she greeted “Hello, good morning”. I was too distracted to respond to her greetings, I could only nod my head in recognition as I kept staring at the 6-inch short she had on. The tailor must have been very conservative of the jean fabric, probably because it cost a lot. Now I know I was smiling, simply because it was indeed a very good morning; it certainly wasn’t because of that lady.

Just as I was still appreciating the glory of the morning, I heard a scream from the floor below mine. Everywhere was in rancour. I looked down, across the railings and found students running helter–skelter. I quickly caught a glimpse of a red jacket with a huge Eagle on it, and I knew hell had been brought to my doorstep. I quickly dashed into the apartment and screamed: “They are here!” Immediately, everyone in the apartment rushed to get the closest clothing they could lay their hands on, and we struggled through the door and made away. The law enforcement body continued to chase after us.

In that moment, the reality of my life and the choices I had made became very unclear to me. My mind paced everywhere. I made my way through a narrow path just across the gate of the lodge, and finally, I found myself in another street. I tried to compose as I saw the police just ahead. By God’s grace, I had escaped the men with the Red jacket; there was nothing to be afraid of. Just as I approached the Law enforcement officers in front, I was accosted by them and by my appearance; suddenly, there was a need for them to be defensive.

I had just a short and a singlet on, and my dread was scattered because of the marathon I had just embarked on. They immediately asked me where I was coming from and I stuttered. I was still processing my thoughts when I heard one of the officers demanding a means of identification. I reached into my back pocket to get my wallet when I received a bullet straight to my thigh. I struggled for balance and immediately fell to the ground, all I could hear was “Put your hands where I can see them”. One of the officers reached for my hands and found my wallet. I could hear them debating in regret and wondering what to do. One of the officers had gone through my wallet and discovered I was a final-year student at the University of Jos. They decided to rush me to the hospital.

I was helped from the floor into their official van, and we headed for the hospital. The whole time, I was bleeding profusely. As we hastened towards the hospital, the vehicle began to jerk to a stop. One of the officers suggested that they needed to refuel the van. A couple of minutes went by, and we were stuck at a point, and I was battling for life as I had lost so much blood. Eventually, we made it to the hospital, and I was barely conscious. The doctors immediately requested that I needed an immediate blood transfusion. After a quick test, a nurse rushed to get a pack of blood from the Blood bank, but after a few minutes, she returned empty-handed and whispered some words to the doctor.

He shook his head and said my blood match wasn’t available in the hospital’s blood bank, and they needed to get it elsewhere. At this point, I was left to fate as the doctors tried everything possible to stop the bleeding as we waited. I am sure I lost consciousness before I got the chance to say my name for the doctor’s record; I guess it was meaningless at this point, and the whole journey of my life in itself. I tried to give my life purpose, but it was frustrated and cut short. My life ended just as it had begun, in a struggle.