Most men think it would be great to be surrounded by women. However, if these women are your sisters, that cancels the whole thing out. The four sisters born before me were all bigger than me, of course. Not only were they born first, but girls tend to get their growth earlier than boys. While they are bigger than you, they can torment you. If you start to cry, they say, "Boys don't cry!"

Boys catch up later in terms of size, and then they start pounding on girls. Knowing this instinctively, my sisters wanted to get their licks in early. They will all deny that they teased and taunted me. They were smart, even cunning, in the way that all women are. If I went to complain to my parents, they would put on an innocent look. Liars! Out of the corner of my eye, I would see my sisters laughing secretly.

It wasn't physical violence. It was the mental anguish. They tried to dress me up as their favorite pop stars, make me stand on the bed, and pretend to play guitar and sing while they swooned. I had to play Davy Jones from the Monkees, Paul and John from the Beatles, and various others.

I lived in mortal fear that the guys would find out I was a five-year-old stand-in for the favorite heartthrobs of all girls everywhere. If word of that had gotten out, I would have been in for severe beatings from other boys.

Here was another reason to begin making plans to leave the country as soon as I could.

By the way, my sisters insist, to this day, that they were always nice to me, and that I am making up all the bad stuff. Did I imagine it? You decide.

With each new pregnancy, I would pray: God, please, give me a brother. The sister born just after me came close. She was almost a boy. She liked bugs, and mud, and climbing trees. Up to a certain age, at which she and I both realized that biology had other plans for her, I sort of thought she was my missing brother. After that, it was all downhill. There were two more girls in quick succession.

Then my parents took a break from producing children for a while. They had had eight kids in 1 O years, which I think may be a world record, even for "practicing Catholics." If you've ever wondered what that means, just count the number of kids. I think you can guess what they're practicing.

Four years later, though, my mom was pregnant again. It was my last chance. This time I was sure it would be a boy. God could not be that cruel. The day my mom went to the hospital, I hid and prayed. Then the news came that it was another girl. Forget that business about boys not crying. I hid in the corner of my room, behind a chest of drawers, and sobbed inconsolably for hours.

Well, to be honest, no one was there trying to console me. My sisters were all celebrating the increase in their majority over me. Their rule was now absolute! I think this prepared me for dealing with living under various African dictators, who never showed their foes any mercy.

Excerpt from “My Two Centuries”