Maria Oluwabukola Oni
People can be so annoying! I think as I march angrily down Gboyega Kilo Street. You try to help them and they make you feel like a busybody. I hiss loudly and elaborately. The middle-aged man, apparently on his morning walk beside me, recoils immediately. He has a doubtful look on his face, like he is not sure I am actually a human to have such a venomous hiss. I look at him quickly, up and down, in hateful eyeing. He stops completely and stares at me. I hiss again as I keep on walking. He is just stupid like all others of his gender, I think as I remember what caused my anger initially.
Mama Simbi is the food seller two houses away from mine. Her tasty meals are well known and patronized for miles around. Every morning you would see students, young women and men, particularly married men patiently waiting on the queue for her steaming, spicy pepper rice making one wonder if their spri spri speaking wives had never considered the thought that their husbands could be easily ensnared and forever lost via their hungry belly.
This morning, I happened to be two turns from the person Mama Simbi was attending to, with my long neck stretched forward, and my signal picking eyes roving about for the most minute detail when I saw the man squeeze some money into her hand. I immediately became interested and fixed my eyes on them. She smiled broadly and genuflected, expressing her thanks for the excessive amount. When he touched her shoulder, telling her, “Don’t mention. Thank God,” it was normal until of all wonders, that hand on her shoulder moved to cup her left breast. Chineke! My eyes were definitely playing tricks on me. I turned to see if others on the queue saw what was happening but it was either their eyes were for decoration—just to complete their facial assemblage—or it was a common sight and I was the only one seeing it for the first time.
I turned to look back at them, expecting Mama Simbi’s anger and the resultant effusive insults typical of an Ibadan woman. The foolish woman was still smiling, apparently comfortable with the philandering hand squeezing and fondling both breasts. Ew! What will one not see in Lagos! I walked up to them, flung the useless hand away and said in my loudest voice, “Oga, you are very useless o. You don’t have respect for women as I am seeing you. Do you want to send her out of her husband’s house?”
The man looked amused and opened his mouth to speak. Mama Simbi quickly cut in, holding a hand up.
“Eh, Eh. Who asked for your opinion? Jealousy. Must you say everything you see? Amebo osi. That’s why you are forever single. If you don’t leave this place now, I will beat you like a conga drum.”
Noisy laughter rose behind me, pushing me out of the shop amidst rowdy mocking, clapping and shouts of “Go away, Amebo Mary.” Imagine, Mama Simbi had accused me of being jealous. Thunder fire her papa left yansh. She even mentioned my singleness as if it was my fault. Anyone who sees me will notice straight away that I am very pretty, more pretty than adultress Mama Simbi hundred times over. I have a pert backside too. Unfortunately, it has not attracted any eligible man to me; they always say I have a sharp, talkative tongue and bad reputation. And really, I don’t care. What’s wrong in saying the truth? Imagine seeing the truth and refusing to address it just because of food. That’s why this country remains stagnant. I hiss again. My hungry stomach rumbles in protest. Not a good way to resume work after a two-week suspension, I think as my flitting mind goes to Madam Fola’s shop.
I am in my final apprenticeship year at Madam Fola’s tailoring shop. I can boldly say I work harder than any girl in that shop. But Madam Fola never acknowledges it, all she does is yell.
“This girl, I don’t understand what you gain from poking your nose in other people’s business. I have lost count of customers I’ve lost since you came here due to your gossip. If you are not willing to learn, you can gladly go.”
Most of the time, I look at her with disdain; she is a gossip just as I am. Who does she call when her short antennaed ears itch for juicy gossip? Who does she ask to confirm rumours? She would ask me questions in a chatty manner, her eyes on the working sewing machine, her fingers with their black burnt knuckles pushing the dress to slide under the needle and her feet swinging the pedal kpakam! kpakam!
“Mary, did you notice Obiageli has not returned to open her shop since that day she went with that tall man she calls her uncle? I heard she had an abortion that nearly took her life and is recuperating at home. You can visit her in the afternoon but come back on time o.” Or it could be…
“I heard that, that empty shop downstairs has been rented out and the new owner is a big-time fashion designer in Ikeja. Mary, this can be a big threat to my business. Please, help me ask around.”
Yet, she would turn around to call me a gossip! Hmm! I leave her to God. What caused my suspension was because I spoke the truth as usual when her friend, Aunty Nimah came to visit her at the shop. She came with her one-year-old, very black monkey of a baby called Adams. How possible it was that a yellow woman with an elusive ‘Canadian’ husband (who she always says communicates with her on Signal and Snapchat) could give birth to a black-like-amala baby remains a mystery.
It happened that Adam was sitting and playing quietly in his pram while the two women whispered and giggled. I strained my ears to hear what they were saying, parading around the little cut-off corner exclusively for Madam Fola, borrowing scissors which I didn’t need from her machine, wishing her phone would ring so I would run to give it to her. Anytime I sashayed past them in my long Caribbean skirt, Madam Fola would snap, “Mary, what did you misplace that you are looking for? Have you finished the embroidery on that dress?”
Angry that I still couldn’t get close to hear their discussion, I sat idly at my machine. Snatches of the nursery rhyme playing on Adam’s pram entered my ears. I listened attentively and heard the sweet female voice singing:
Lavender’s blue, dilidili
Lavender’s green
When I am rich, dili dili
You shall be poor.
I clapped my hands and shook my head in wonder. What kind of song is this? What would people say when this boy began to babble the words? I wanted to make Aunt Nimah aware of this but restrained myself with difficulty. She probably had heard it and thought nothing of it; it was just a rhyme. Education really makes people foolish, you know. I remembered the dress on my machine and started working on it. Then I heard Madam Fola shouting for me. I ran to her quickly, maybe I would hear the hot gist if I hovered longer than necessary. Adam’s diaper was soggy and leaking—careless Aunt Nimah had probably worn it on him since daybreak. Long lines of urine raced down his chubby legs making his beautiful brown leather sandals wet. I removed the sandals first. My eyes immediately went to the designer name on the inside of the sandals—Faded Glory. I dropped them immediately. How could a child who had not seen anything of the world have a faded glory? Little wonder his father had not come to claim him and his mother continued her men-merry-go-round life without qualms. Surely he was of a faded glory—everything about him had no colour. I bent to pick a foot of the sandals and lifted it up.
“Aunt Nimah,” I called in a mild, tolerating voice.
“Ehen? Yes?” she answered in an irritated voice as if she knew I could not still be ‘Amebo Mary’ and allow them to carry on with their discussion without eventually interrupting. I don’t care. I must say my mind.
“Have you seen the name on Adam’s sandals?” she looked at Madam Fola as if to say, is your apprentice running temperature? She looked at me again with a cold frown.
“Yes, I’ve seen it. Anything the matter?” I quickly began the voluntary task of setting her aright. “But Aunt Nimah, you are educated now. How can you open your eyes and buy a pair of sandals that label your son a faded glory? When you buy your skincare products, don’t you read the label or ingredients used?” I accused.
She rose unsteadily from her chair, trying ineffectively to contain her anger.
“You must be very stupid. What are you insinuating? That I am a careless or thoughtless mother?”
I looked sideways and pushed my jaw forward as if to say before nko? “Look, Aunt Nimah. You know I will always say the truth. Adam’s faded glory sandals are stigmatizing and that stupid rhyme of ‘when I am rich, you shall be poor’ just totals up to his poor upbringing.”
A dark cloud rested ominously on her face, making her heavily made up face look like that of Madam Gagool.
“Shege, burau banka. Dan banza.” She hurled at me as if it was a dirty slap. What’s my own? I don’t even understand the words. “Walahi phola, disi gerl must lip disu flace this pery minute pifor I lose my temfa,” she said in a taut voice, her Hausa accent now strongly tainting her English.
I bared my teeth in amused mockery and she pounced on me like a wounded tigress. Madam Fola quickly came in between us, preventing her punch from landing on my body and simultaneously shoving me out of the screen door with the words, “Mary, please go home. I will call you back later.”
That later was to come after a specific two-week suspension I read on WhatsApp. Na them sabi. Has the two weeks not gone now? But Aunt Nimah will forever remember that incident anytime her eyes settle on those sandals, I think with smugness.
So, this morning, I resume at the shop. I can picture the other girls crowding around my machine, filling me on gists that I have missed during my absence. I smile indulgingly, at the same time looking across the road. I stand with my mouth agape at the sight I behold. Two young men, one is slightly taller than the other, are holding hands in a kind of mutual acceptance that is suspicious, very suspicious. I watch them stroll along, skirting around the puddles on the street, laughing intermittently and most importantly, still holding hands like… Could they be…?
I receive a WhatsApp message notification. It’s from Madam Fola. The preview reads: Mary, I understand you’re to resume today… I swipe it off my screen. What’s the reminder for after ignoring me all this while? There are two things I don’t like about WhatsApp users, no three.
1. I don’t like spies, people who turn off the read receipt so it looks like they are busy and haven’t seen my message when they’ve read it secretly.
2. I don’t like people who open my messages but don’t reply until days later or until I give them a call. These people are hypocrites. They think they’re better than those who turn off their read receipt. Why bother to open my chat when you’re not ready for it?
3. I don’t like people who are fully online but do not read my messages or take their calls as if they want me to beg for their attention. Imagine sending a meme or funny video I think they’ll like and getting a laughing emoji or LOL one month later, after I’ve angrily deleted the chat and can’t remember what caused their LOL.
Madam Fola is the champion of sets 1 and 2. I won’t read her message too.
Maria Oluwabukola Oni is a copywriter and storyteller based in Lagos, Nigeria. Her stories have appeared in Spillwords, Hearth & Coffin, Black Glass Pages, Zinnia Journal, Iko Africa, Pencilmarks, Words, Rhymes & Rhythm, Akowdee Magazine, Ebedi Review, Nantygreens, Jellyfish Review and forthcoming in others. She tweets @OhMariaCopy.
Featured photos by Owoeye Taiwo Bisola (top) and Omotayo Kofoworola (in body) from Pexels
