When I was learning the English language, one of the first things I learnt was greetings. I learnt that you say ‘good morning’ when it’s morning, ‘good afternoon’ when it’s afternoon and ‘good night’ when you’re going to bed. Another thing I learnt was that when someone asks you, ‘how are you?’, your automatic reply to that is ‘fine’. So I stuck to it. Whenever a person asks me, ‘how are you?’, without thinking I just say, ‘fine.’ Whether I was fine or having a bad day or not, the word ‘I’m fine’ was always glued to my tongue and it rolled off anytime I heard that question. It was normal.
So on a particular fine day, when the sky was bright, the sun smiled generously with a pretty show of its dimples, and the trees waved energetically in glorious adoration of the melodious breeze, something went wrong. I was in the market place that was as rowdy as the scattering of plates on a hotel sink. The women selling rice in wheel barrows were right beside the women selling fish in big baths. The suckling children were almost indistinguishable, because the trader who had a stock of beans had two children, the woman who sold red oil and tomatoes had three other children that she brought along with her. They were all situated on a road that was not recognized as one anymore. They had taken over it and turned it to a marketing spot. All traders were gathered with loud conversations and negotiations.
“Buy it five hundred Naira my sister. That’s the best price I can offer. I swear to God who made me. I even bought it four hundred and fifty Naira. I’m just selling it to you because it’s you.” The tribal marks on her face clearly distinguished her from others, but that did not make her stand out from the crowd of traders. I was wise enough to know that all traders usually hiked up the price of their goods in good hope that one would still negotiate with them. “Madam this fish is too costly for five hundred Naira.” I was still trying to negotiate when I heard the honk of a car. ‘so this is a road.’ I thought. A car was approaching and all traders had to pack their goods for the car to pass.
The Yoruba woman with a bath of fish shouted at her little children, “Leave the road! E kuro!”. The women selling rice in wheelbarrows, the Hausa men selling beans and onions in wheelbarrows, the young Igbo men selling slip ons and sandals, the older ones selling skirts and tops, the young traders that went around in wooden carts on wheels with loads of boxers and underwear, the very industrious men who did not mind selling female items for makeup moved their goods, and the young children that were sent to go sell vegetable with trays placed on their heads ran and scattered.
Voices went up in loud crescendo, eyes widened in immediate alacrity, legs moved and ran, bodies pushed and pushed, “Hey madam! Watch it! You have stepped me!” Someone said behind me. “Oh I’m so sorry.” I replied but she wasn’t referring to me. I seemed to forget there were many people around me, rubbing and pushing against one another. I collided against a few bodies during the whole clampering. Then the blue Lexus jeep passed the midst of the people with glasses tinted and rolled up.
“Idiot! Man man! Useless people! They don’t even care about the welfare of others. They just pass through and oppress others with their riches!” An angry woman with a baby strapped to her back said. I could understand her pain, she had probably moved and run from her spot five times that day. There was no space to sell, so they had made use of a road that was not so frequently plied. She probably had to run hetter sketer with her baby, and the bath of red oil she sold. But that was not also a fault of the driver. People just had a way of transferring the anger and aggression they felt on others to at least get by the day.
Soon, the jeep drove off and it was time for them to return to their spots. If they were not fast enough to return, their spots would be taken and they would remain displaced with no one to fight for them, they didn’t pay for it in the first place. The trader I came to meet had to scamper for her space first, same with others and the atmosphere regained a little sanity. Of course the noise didn’t reduce, it was constant. The market without the noise was probably an illusion. And this is why whenever students made noise in school, the teacher walks in and hits the table in front with his long stick, “Are you in the market place? Why are you so noisy? Would you keep silent? The staff room is beside you!” he would thunder before leaving in a sadistic manner. The market was associated with noise.
I turned my attention back to the woman I was patronising. “Oya madam. How much? I don’t have all day. I would pay two hundred and fifty naira for the two.” She exclaimed and covered her mouth with her hands, “Haaaa!! Customer! Ahn Ahn! How can I sell it like that?” Mom had taught me to usually slash the price into two whenever I was negotiating, and if they were adamant, I should act like I was leaving to another seller and see if they would call me back. So I acted like I was going when she called me, “Come! It’s because it’s you. That’s why I’m selling it for you like that.” she said in a grumble. She reached for her knife and began to cut.
“Don’t cut it with the head, remove it.” I told her. It was then I reached for my purse in my brown bag. But I couldn’t feel it. So I dipped my hand deeper into the bag and searched harder. Where could it be? The trader looked on at me with a corner of her eye as she continued cutting the fish, as if daring me to say anything about losing money. But I still didn’t find it.
But I was sure the purse was there that afternoon. I had put it there immediately I collected it from my boss at work. It was a sum total of twenty thousand Naira and it was gone. Just gone? Just like that? But how did that happen? Did I drop it? Or did someone take it? “Madam please pay your money!” She reminded again. She had been talking but I was still lost in the realization that my month’s sweat was gone, the fish I could not buy was the least of my worries. How was I supposed to cope through the month? What was I going to eat? What about my children’s fees? How was I to survive? Wait… What… What.. I couldn’t think as my brain began to stammer. “Madam your money!” She shouted again.
In the rage I felt, “I’m looking for my purse! Are you blind?!” I lashed out. She just looked at me and rolled her eyes at me in mockery. “So you don’t even have money and you made me cut the fish.” She finally said and gave a loud hiss before she returned the fish into her black bath filled with paper and carton. “Useless people! That’s how they behave. Wasting someone’s time, after hours of useless negotiation, so she didn’t even have some money. Customer!” she called out again. Not to me but to another woman who seemed to want to buy fish.
I shook my head as if to shake the realization that just hit me. I had lost my monthly salary. And I had even borrowed from the trader beside our house and promised to return it at the end of the month. But now what? How did it get lost? It was then I remembered the split minutes that the market was turned upside down when the jeep passed. That must have been it. Yes! The few people I collided against must have stolen the money. But who was I to report to? The police? If I did then i would have had to pay them almost a sum of ten thousand Naira to get them to help. And that was half of my salary. And that was if they were even willing to come help me. Which police would leave his post and investigate a twenty thousand Naira theft? All they would say is, “Madam be careful with your things.” Then they would have consoled me by saying, “The police is your friend.”
Tears dropped as I started walking out of the market. I just wanted to go home. But then I remembered that I didn’t even have the money that would take me home. The silent tears dropped, as I blamed myself for branching at the market. A little boy with loads of white nylon for ‘okele’ ran after me shouting, “Madam I have nylon!”. The rage in me burst out as I lashed, “Did I write ‘nylon needed’ on my head? No, is it inscribed on my head?!” I shouted as I shooed him away. Of course he wasn’t the one that stole my money, but the anger in me had to be taken out on someone.
I reached the junction where I was supposed to board a taxi or jump on a bus. But I couldn’t. So once more I let the tears flow until someone tapped me and asked, “madam are you fine?” I was about to nod my head affirmatively when I realized I wasn’t actually fine. So like the slow village tortoise, I shook my head and replied, “I’m not fine.”
When I got to school the next day and saw my boss, he asked, “Miss Virtue, how are you today?”. I smiled sadly and replied, “Sir I’m not fine.”. He creased his brows and invited me to his office where I narrated my ordeal and he gave me some money which I tremendously thanked him for.
I got to class that day with a smile. The class captain hit the table thrice and said, “Rise and greet the teacher.”
The students then rose in accordance and greeted, “Good morning ma”, with more emphasis on the morning.
“Good morning how are you?” I asked.
“We are fine, God bless you ma!” They chorused.
“Wrong answer. The reply to ‘how are you?’ should never be static on ‘I’m fine’. You should first think about it first and answer honestly. And that’s where our first lesson begins today.”
