Counting your chickens…….

COUNTING YOUR CHICKENS


George sat in the bus going to Enugu city. He was now sweating profusely and his handkerchief had gotten heavily soaked. From time to time he would wring sweat out of the handkerchief through the window. The midday sun overhead was merciless and pierced the bus windscreen and body as if there was none. George wondered when he will get to Enugu city today. He dared not wait for the epileptic train shuttle between Aba and Enugu city. The tales of stranded travelers passing nights on the rail tracks were legion. One was better served in a broken down bus than a train. One could always hitch a hike from any other vehicle going that way or be rescued by another bus from the firm’s fleet. A train on the other hand left one high and dry on the rail tracks in the event of a breakdown, mostly in the middle of nowhere.

He was sat in a 14-seater passenger bus which had advertised Enugu city. He was clad in an old T-shirt, with a welcome slogan about the USA. The colour of the shirt could no longer be made out, but it was safe to assume that it must have been whitish at some point in the very distant past. Mama had scraped his scalp clean of all hair, ‘to drive away malaria and evil-spirits’, she had claimed. At the time he boarded, there were 7 other ‘passengers’ in the bus then. In addition to him making eight, the bus ought to have been full since another five passengers had arrived and now made fourteen, the driver inclusive. What he hadn’t bargained for was that they could have been fake passengers. Mama had warned him about buses in the big city and their tricks. She had also stressed that he should only join a bus with a known logo on the sides, and stationed inside the bus terminal. He had felt Mama was exaggerating as usual. He knew Mama had such a big fear of the city. Mama who described an extra cup of water in the soup pot as a huge drum of water. He could handle it, he thought and hadn’t bothered to get to mama’s preferred terminal to board.

He was shocked to realise that those seven inside the bus were merely ‘Ocho-passenger’. They were baits used to lure travelers to come into the bus and part with fares believing the bus would soon depart. However for each new passenger, one of the previous seven surreptitiously alighted from the bus. With offhand comments like ‘I am coming’, they quickly disappeared into the distance only to re-appear as soon as another vehicle began loading. With well-choreographed steps, their coming and going was over in a matter of seconds.

George was aghast when he noticed the fifth ‘Ocho-passenger’ trying to disembark. He grabbed the bus conductor and demanded a refund of his fare. The conductor grabbed him as well, and a lot of pushing and shoving went on before the other passengers helped to separate the two. Meanwhile the other two ‘Ocho-passenger’ left in the bus, used the melee to exit the scene as well. The conductor merely referred George to the bottom section of the bus ticket. It stated clearly that ‘there will be no refund of money after payment’!

Dejected, shirt rumpled, ego bruised, George sat back in the bus. The argument meanwhile raged on. Few applauded the concept of the ‘Ocho-passenger’, others criticized it. Some were for the conductor, others were against. Some even berated George for the display and wondered aloud why the young ones always seemed in a hurry. Others were upset and felt shortchanged that after all the buildup, not even a single punch was thrown in anger or disgust. Disgraceful. What a pair of wimps, they thought!

More painful for George was the fact that there was no way to recognize the average ‘Ocho-passenger’. One had carried a small briefcase like a Jehovah Witness member. One had been reading a newspaper, the other a magazine. One had been listening to music on his mobile phone through an ear device. There was no guarantee that outside the seven, that there weren’t more still left. Other things now began to make sense to George. The little hawkers with their trays full of confectionaries hadn’t bothered with some of the passengers, who had all turned out to be all ocho-passengers. The bus conductor as well hadn’t bothered any of them for their fares and George had erroneously felt they must have paid earlier before he had gotten there. How wrong he had been! There had even been one sat in the driver’s seat, who only made way once George confronted the conductor. They were all in on it.

Finally the bus was full. Enter haggling session between the conductor, the driver that just appeared, and some men who claimed to be from the Government. The bus was parked on the roadside, far from the bus terminal. Another twenty minutes was spent on this before the bus moved on to the road, then veered right into the next gas station they encountered. Why the driver hadn’t filled up the gas tank all this while, no one could tell. George, with his ego already bruised refused to join in the cacophony of voices criticizing the driver. He just closed his eyes to the events in the vehicle. He would fight no common battles no more.

He was going to Enugu city to meet up with his uncle. His uncle was to house him until the University Matriculation Examinations taking place nationwide. George was a gifted student and consistently made good grades in School. Mama was determined that he received University Education. He had his pocket money from Mama, N20, 000 only. It was in the pocket of his inner shorts. Mama was a petty trader in their hometown and worked hard for any money she made. George had sworn to face his books and make her proud in no time. Not like Samankwe, the Catechist’s son. The family had sold their prized farmlands to pay for his education outside the country. After 10 years in the foreign lands, he had returned penniless. More like deported back with only the clothes on his back. He also had ear-rings in his earlobes and spoke with a funny accent. He now greeted people ‘hi’ in the mornings instead of the town’s customary salutation ‘Isalachi’. He had also acquired a drug habit and had since sold off all his few belongings to fund it. No, he was much smarter than that and would make Mama proud.

His thoughts drifted to his uncle whom he was to live with in Enugu city. He used to be known in their town as ‘Kusorochi’. These days he was only known and referred to as ‘Prince’. Even his new car had customized plates with ‘Prince’ printed on them. He had gone to Mama for answers to the puzzle. How come uncle Kusorochi was a Prince, and he George wasn’t? After all they were descended from the same Family Tree. Uncle was son to Papa’s senior brother. To the best of his knowledge, there was no royal blood in their lineage. Mama had asked to wait for his uncle’s return in December. She also confirmed that Papa’s family had no traceable links to the ruling houses but also knew that Kusorochi’s mother hailed from Opobo Town and could have provided the royal title. George felt the Opobo connection was a long shot and counted the days till December when uncle Kusorochi would return.

In December, Kusorochi returned. His fancy car horn gave away his proximity before the car rolled down the street towards the house. George was first among the throng of neighbourhood children and youths that ran to welcome Kusorochi. It was a long wait till the backslapping, loud laughter and tumultuous dancing finally toned down to barely audible chatter between the returnee and the various compound breadwinners. George finally got his uncle alone as he made to go relieve himself in the bushes behind the main house and immediately asked him about the title. Kusorochi confirmed to George that he had been born a commoner and his full names were Kusorochi Charles Nema. His City friends began calling him Prince due to his other name Charles. He was a namesake to a certain Prince of Wales known as Prince Charles. So he had also adopted the title to go with his name.




Three and a half hours later, after several stops and bumps on the way, they arrived Enugu city. They had got in before 4pm and there was still plenty of daylight around. George alighted at the terminal and felt the bulge from his inner pocket to be sure his pocket money from mama was still intact. He had heard a lot of the tricks of the city used to separate one from his funds. They had met their match in him. A very streetwise young man. Only death could separate him from this pocket money, he swore to himself. He considered those who fell prey to the sweet words of fraudsters as mere weaklings. The money was still there. He smiled to himself and picked up his bag.

He walked to a tri-cycle parked just in front. There was a driver and one passenger in the tri-cycle. He mentioned his uncle’s bus stop, Independence layout. The driver asked him to hop in. The other passenger wore a faded white tunic with cap to match. He had a foreign air about him, like someone newly returned from the West African coast. The other passenger stopped the tricycle and alighted. He began fiddling with his pockets looking for his fare. George looked elsewhere whilst waiting for the journey to re-start. He wondered if his uncle would have any dinner at home being a long term bachelor. He had told him on phone that they’ll mostly be eating out when he George arrived. The idea appealed to him, something different from the norm whilst with Mama. He closed his eyes to imagine the exotic aromas that would assail his nostrils tonight. He wondered if the uncle will take him to the famous ‘Polo-park’, with the numerous cafeterias built out of old container units. Mama had told him how the women used long wooden pestles to turn the ‘fufu’ in giant pots, clad in aprons stained with oil and perspiration. He had also heard how they regularly clashed over customers and sundry matters, bumping their mammoth bosoms against each other, like two rams locking horns. Or maybe to Ogbete junction, famed worldwide for the ‘abacha’ delicacy. George couldn’t wait! He had heard they garnish the abacha with rings of fresh onion, chumps of garden-egg as well as roasted cray-fish. Hmmmn. George couldn’t wait to meet his uncle, or for dinner time to come.

‘Excuse me Sir, please pay me in the local currency’, the driver said. George was startled out of his reverie ‘Please this is what i have, and i had been using it to pay others since i arrived’, the man in the faded tunic replied. The driver was shocked! ‘You mean you have been paying people in $100 bills’? He asked. ‘Each of these bills equals N30, 000 only in our local currency’ he continued. The tunic wearing man was nonplussed. He claimed to have loads of dollars in his bags at the hotel. He would like to reward them for their thoughtfulness and kind consideration for him. He was ready to exchange up to $50,000 only for N50, 000 as well, as a token of his appreciation. He would also collect their phone numbers and will reach them immediately he arrived on subsequent trips. He was in Enugu city once every week and was a rich textile seller in his native Abidjan. He bought bales of textile from importers in Enugu city for resell in his native country.

George quickly did the math. If he exchanged N20, 000 pocket money for $20,000, and subsequently sold same at the going market rate of N300/$1, that would be N6, 000,000! Six times a millionaire. A millionaire at 18 years of age. ‘Brother, this is our lucky day o ‘, the driver said to George aside. ‘Me, I will like to drive a real car and not a tricycle ‘. He had only N1, 000 on him though. George quickly brought out his pocket money from Mama, all N20, 000 of it. The man in the tunic collected the total of N21, 000 from both of them and left with the driver to get the other money from his hotel room. George was to wait in the adjourning bar for them. George was so happy and insisted they share a round of drinks before the driver left with the man in the tunic dress, who had now revealed his name as Alhaji Musa Yusuf from Abidjan, Ivory Coast. George could see the hotel gate from the bar and knew the man was lodged in room 51.

‘Thank you, Jesus', George exclaimed as soon as he was alone and made a sign of the cross. He smiled into his glass full of chilled malt. His Literature teacher in school had a favorite quote from Shakespeare; ‘there’s a tide in the affairs of men’. George’s high tide had arrived. In his town, it was said that ‘one couldn’t tell a good market day from a dull morning’. If the bus hadn’t been delayed, he might have missed this great benefactor from Abidjan that was going to help him make 30,000% instant income without even lifting a finger. This must be what the preacher on radio had referred to as ‘uncommon grace’. Yes he may have been school mates with his other town boys, maybe even age mates and room-mates, but he was clearly not their ‘grace-mate’. He was about joining the big leagues!

Once he received his windfall, he would make his way back to the hometown the next day. Of course after paying for a new accommodation in a highbrow area of Enugu city for his uncle and then buying a car. No, two cars. One for himself, and one would be for Mama. Her’s would be colored red and he will also employ a driver for her. He would learn to drive and upon gaining admission to the University, take it along with him. Before then though, he would build Mama a new house. A colorful bungalow with all the modern appliances. No more trips to the stream to fetch water for Mama and his siblings. There would be running water, washing machines as well like the type he glimpsed in the Reverend’s home, while on an errand. He would also incorporate a vacation to foreign lands with the rest of his siblings and Mama. They will visit the city of love, Paris. They’ll have a picnic lunch at the Eiffel Tower and spend the rest of the day marveling at the wonderful artefacts in the Lourdes museum. Maybe a quick walk through the fashion shops and colourful bistros, enroute the famed ‘Champs du Elysees’. He couldn’t wait to hear the excited shrieks of his siblings as they run amok on the grounds of Disneyland in Paris. Mama would likely sit out the trip to Disneyland, likely to prefer sampling the gourmet on offer. Mama was a huge admirer of good food, and the French were famed as the best.

A quick tube across the channel to London would also be in order. They could even include his Uncle so that he could visit with his namesake, Prince Charles. He, George would be revered in their hometown. He might even condescend to accept a Chieftaincy title from the King. Maybe ‘nwata kwo sia aka, nke mbu’. Yes, if the child washes his hands clean, he is allowed to dine with the elders.

“Hello Sir”, the waiter was speaking to him. ‘It’s been 3 hours now since your friends were gone’, he said. ‘Kindly pay for the drinks as we are about to close’. What! It was true. His watch confirmed same. He also confirmed from the waiter that there was no hotel across from the bar, but a mini residential estate with dual entry gates on either side. His world came crashing down. His dreams. His chickens all counted before even laid. Mama always warned against counting your chickens. The Alhaji and the driver must have been collaborating together. Chei! He exclaimed again, Chei! He was done for, finished! He thought of a quick escape but considering the other workers had now begun to gather, the chances were slim.

He begged the waiter to help make the call to his Uncle to come pick him and clear the bills to enable them let him off. The waiter only did so after lashing him severely. It didn’t get better with his uncle either. Uncle Kusorochi was furious when he arrived. Despite the plans to acquire better accommodation for him in the other side of Town. He railed throughout the ride home to his dwellings. How could George do such a thing? Now he would have to source money, as such news might just kill George’s poor mother. Since their dinner money had been spent on paying for drinks consumed at the bar by George and his business partners, they went to bed hungry and teary in the case of George, who was also too ashamed to speak.

His tears soon gave way to the sweet call of sleep. Once George began to snore, uncle Kusorochi remarked that to himself on how much the boy’s snore sounded like his late father’s. It still seemed like yesterday when he had been running around in diapers. They grow so fast these days, he thought to himself. The boy had grown into a fine young man, but like his own father always told him all those years ago, “that a boy has grown tall does not mean that he has acquired the wisdom of the elders”.



Nnamdi Wabara, 2016.

A Friendly Dilemma

A Friendly Dilemma

Tagbo sat on his pushcart outside the warehouse of Ambrose Enterprises .His was sixth in line, waiting turns to lift a full pushcart load of goods down to various buyers in the market. Tagbo also joined to offload the Lorries when they arrived laden with goods, into the warehouses. For offloading, they manually loaded several cartons on their shoulders and stacked them in lines inside the warehouse.

Tagbo was popular in the loader’s union and amongst the hiring traders. He was known to be energetic and honest. The loaders’ Union ensured only their members could load, offload and operate pushcarts in the market. They had issued identity cards from the union with their given numbers emblazoned on the bright red bibs they wore atop their shirts. The union also had records of individual loaders’ and their mobile telephone numbers.

The Union was led by a renowned loader called ‘Ifeadigo’. His alias translated from the Igbo language meant – one who had arrived in wealth. He no longer had to load since he was the President of the loaders’ union, but from time to time, stripped off to his torso and joined his men offloading. The loaders were paid at agreed rates for individual cartons of goods. This varied according to weight, as cartons of noodles attracted little fees per carton, compared to cartons of soap or condensed liquid milk.

This was Tagbo’s world. It usually began by 7.00 am when he arrived at the union office. He paid a daily fee of N20 only to obtain a ticket. This ticket enabled him access to load, offload and operate a pushcart. His pushcart had only been recently acquired on hire-purchase. He remitted N300 weekly to the owner. He still had 2 months to go of the remittances for the pushcart to become fully his property.

He had faithfully fulfilled the contract for the previous 10 months. Then after his ticket, he speedily dashes to Mr. Njoku’s place. Mr. Njoku had constructed several little anchors cast into the cement flooring of his vast compound adjacent the market. Pushcart operators, wheel barrow operators could lock their carts and barrows overnight there with a chain and padlock. He paid N10 daily to lock his cart there every evening after work.

So apart from the occasional call from Mama Beaty in Nekwa Town to complain about the irregularity of his visits, life was fairly uncomplicated for Tagbo. Mama Beaty, was Tagbo’s mother. Beatrice was her first child and in Nekwa Town, mothers’ were called after their firstborn’s nickname. That was why one heard rather exotic names like Mama Yoyo, Yoyo was her son Humphrey’s nickname. Or Mama Popo, so called after her daughter Mgbokwo’s alias.

Tagbo worked hard and usually had the weekly remittance for the hire-purchase ready by Monday evening. His Tuesdays began late, as he made sure to first visit the bank and pay into the owner’s account firstly, with the teller photocopied and copies well folded in a dry corner of his carrier bag before stripping off to his work clothes. One day in the bank, a slogan caught his eye; ’WITH YOU, TO THE TOP’. He liked it. Liked it so much that he painted an abridged version on his cart; ‘WITH YOU’. That became his name. Other loaders, traders, the food seller referred to him as WITH YOU. It was common for invoices issued by sellers to their customers to have ‘WITH YOU’ inscribed as the one to collect the goods. Life for Tagbo was simple. WITH YOU by day, Tagbo by night and Sundays. He had little troubles, till the phone call that changed his life.

It was a Tuesday. Tagbo remembered because it was his bank day. He had just paid in the week’s remittance and was on his way to pick the cart and change into his work clothes, when his mobile phone vibrated in his pocket. He picked the call. Big mistake. It was the Rev. Luke. Could Tagbo kindly rush down to the church, there had been an emergency. For any other reason, Tagbo wouldn’t have budged. It was a busy Tuesday. He already had five text messages from different customers of their goods to be collected by ‘WITH YOU’. Also there were about 10 trucks that came in over the night to be offloaded. But how could Tagbo not answer the call of the Rev.? He was an ordained man of God. Regularly mentioned in his sermons about conversations with God. Last week he had preached on Obedience being better than sacrifice. What if he reported Tagbo, that he had been disobedient? Tagbo hastened to answer.

The emergency was in the form of a festering trouble left behind by Cletus, a man who also hailed from Nekwa Town. Cletus had been a thriving business man, with a large shop dedicated to the sale of cosmetics and female inner garments. Had. For the past 2 months, Cletus had abandoned matrimonial home, wife of 2 years standing and a child, to move in with a middle aged woman who ran a beer-parlour shop, two streets from the market.

His family had gone to talk to him, to no avail. His bible study group members, no dice. The madame who now harbored him, sat with him through the various meetings. All reported that Cletus had an odd smile and a vacant look spread from ear to ear. When the wife attempted to see him, the madame and her attendants engaged the young wife in an uneven bout of pugilistics. The lady landed in hospital and had to be discharged to the Rev. Luke after he paid her bills. The Rev. himself thereafter went to see Cletus at this place and marveled that Cletus wasn’t moved by hearing the Rev. Luke describe his conversation with God on Cletus. The Rev. Luke kept shaking his head as he left the seedy beer-parlour. ’Den of iniquity’, he remarked when relaying the story to his wife.

The Nekwa Town residents in Onitsha at their urgent meeting, had only one item on the Agenda; Cletus. It was resolved to hire a bus to bring his ‘Umunna’, to come and rescue this man from whatever diabolic charms may have been laid upon him, that he abandoned his home and shop to move in with a woman old enough to be his mother. The members wondered amongst themselves which far away herbalist could have prepared a charm as potent as this. For there was nothing physically appealing about the madame. Her outer mammary glands had long obeyed the gravitational forces and headed south with little fuss. Her facial features were always shrouded in layers of cheap make-up. She had two frontal teeth that seemed out of line with the remaining teeth, and even protruded when her lips were closed. It was rumored that her first husband left due to those teeth, poor man. Too many nights he had turned in bed to behold 2 shimmering white spear like buds, shining in the darkness. One day he was gone. There were rumours of his sightings in Fernando Po, but nothing concrete.

In an average Igbo town, the Umunna (for the men) and Umuada (for the women) are usually the last resort. They are members of the village, not necessarily kin and are drawn from across various age grades. They were the equivalent of enforcers. They were tasked with bringing to heel members who strayed from acceptable norms. During funerals, they were feted and they had to confirm that the deceased dues and levies were paid up, before interment dates could be announced. Yes, the Umunna disciplined both the living and the dead.

It was no different in Nekwa. So one fateful morning, 7.00am prompt, their bus landed at the madame’s house. Ten able bodied men in their prime. Biceps bristling, they were unsmiling. They had Cletus in their grasp in no time and quickly filled up their bus and made to speed away. One of the madame’s patrons however was a policeman. He had been alerted by the madame’s frantic calls and also happened to be patrolling the adjourning street with his team. Cletus was freed and returned to the madame, while the Umunna from Nekwa were apprehended and passed the following week in police custody. They were later released to the Village Head after huge sums exchanged hands and undertakings as to future behavior jointly and severally made.

Cletus was thereafter left to his fate. The wife also to her’s. She made her way to the church after the Landlord ran out of patience waiting for Cletus and threw out their few belongings left. They had already been evicted from the Market as well. Obidiya, the wife knelt, her son strapped to her back with a wrapper and begged the Rev. to help them.

The Rev. didn’t have a place for them. He would have let them squat in the Children’s playroom section of the Church, which was yet unutilized, but had observed the frown on his wife’s face as Obidiya spoke. The frown spoke volumes without words and the Rev. knew the option was a no- go area. He decided to call on Tagbo, who was also from Nekwa, to house her and the baby for the night and escort them home to Nekwa next day. He walked them to the gate, all the while exhorting Tagbo with copious quotes from the scriptures, and harped severally on the need to store up treasures in Heaven, and not of the Earth. Once they were out of earshot of the Rev’s wife, the Rev. Luke slyly slipped some money into Tagbo’s pocket. ‘To help with the transport fare to Nekwa’, he said. Tagbo only nodded, too dazed to speak. Just this morning he had been ‘WITH YOU’, now he was with Obidiya, wife of Cletus and their child.

Tagbo lived in a semi-slum. The dwelling area comprised series of blocks of one bedroom apartments. His own block had ten of these, with all sharing 2 toilets and bathrooms, a pair located at each end of the block. Five rooms were allocated a pair and rosters drawn up as to daily maintenance. Each tenant also had keys as the conveniences were always locked to avoid usage by sundry passersby. The whole block of ten apartments shared a common kitchen behind the block. To this residence, Tagbo now led Obidiya and her son to.

Tagbo couldn’t travel the next day, Wednesday. He decided to hold on till Thursday or Saturday. His biggest customer, Oga Ben, was coming on Wednesday. ‘WITH YOU’ had his hands full anytime Oga Ben was around. He decided to show Obidiya the daily routine for the shared tasks, where he kept the toiletries as well as the general layout of the one bedroom he lived in. Her baby was so well behaved and rarely bawled or disturbed. Tagbo left the set of keys with her as he left for work.

Once Tagbo got to the market and changed into his work clothes, the pace of the day took over. There were orders upon orders waiting. All the activities of yesterday were a blur on his mind, as he became ‘WITH YOU’ once more and clad in in his shorts, torso covered in beads of sweat, he grunted his way to and fro the market with his pushcart. Tagbo was driven by the desire to make up for the lost hours. When he had finished the several orders, he joined those offloading the trucks. It was a good day. He closed early, so as to seek out a toy tattler for Obidiya’s baby aptly named Miracle.

The real miracle began when he returned from work. Someone had dusted the mosquito net cover on the window and the glass louvres behind were sparkling. The curtain had been washed and spread on the cloth-line outside, as all his dirty clothes. Living in tight spaces meant there were few secrets between the neighbours. Your neighbours and everyone else knew when you had received your payslip, they knew when you were broke and when buoyant. They knew who boiled chicken and who made do without. They knew those that patronized the cheaper ‘iced-fish’ and who was celebrating by steaming stockfish.

Tagbo began trailing the rich aroma wafting forth from the foot gate right up to his door. The air around his room was suffused with appetite whetting smells. Even the caretaker was sat on a stool outside his door and made sure to shout a greeting across to the returning Tagbo. Strange that. Tagbo still debated within himself if this was the right house. He was pondering if he dared cross the threshold when Obidiya came out and welcomed him most warmly. She took the bag off him and led him into the room.

Tagbo had never eaten such a sumptuous meal in his home. The food was so inviting that he forgot to bathe till he was through the very last morsel. She had also taken up Tagbo’s turn with the convenience and had given it a new lease of life with a thorough scrub down using disinfectant. Tagbo there and then decided there was no need to rush her return to Nekwa Town. His clothes had been washed, ironed and hung on the wall hanger. The room had been cleaned and now sparkled.

Tagbo woke in the morning to sweet rendition of folk tunes, sung in a sonorous voice. Obidiya had already been up and his water was ready in the bathroom as well as breakfast. Tagbo was experiencing a new level of grace. That day he went to work whistling and humming through his repertoire of praise songs. Obidiya had only made one request from him as he gave her money for minor purchases. To come back with a food warmer or food flask. ‘That must be for warming the baby’s food’, he thought to himself as he left. He was happy she hadn’t raised the topic of their travel to Nekwa town.

The next day, Tagbo went to work with his lunch packed in the food warmer. He carried it in a little canvas bag which he secured with a tiny padlock. He was the only loader or pushcart operator that carried a food flask. He was a novelty. Sitting on his pushcart behind the union building that afternoon, eating from his own lunch packed with care. Even Ifeadigo looked on longingly. And so stopped his acquaintance with the itinerant food sellers. After all there was no relationship between the vulture and the barber. Tagbo’s life had a new boost, there was a new drive. Life was worth it again as days passed into weeks. Weeks became months. Three months passed thus.

The stories began from the church. Obidiya was now always well dressed and in matching outfits with her baby Miracle. She was looking so rosy and lustrous. Cue the whispers. She was second- hand, not original. After she had been with another man before now. Who knew what she did to make Cletus run to an older woman. Some opined that she must have strange growths sprouting from uncommon sites. Only stuff like that could make a grown man show a pair of heels, they reasoned. Envy, that deity of the embittered merely fanned their embers after each Sunday Obidiya was seen.

In the market as well, they were all over Tagbo. News travels fast. They sought to know what he thought of her as a woman. Tagbo as much as he didn’t want to drive them on, was forced to clear her name by disclosing the truth. There was nothing going on, she was just a friendly guest he harbored who happened to be from Nekwa and female. They returned in torrents. How could he always play it nice with the ladies? A lady already with a baby and therefore not so fairly used. Why was he playing the ‘assistant boyfriend’, the ‘carwash’, or did he have certain physiological challenges?

And so the dilemma began. Fueled by talk, Tagbo began to see Obidiya for the woman she was. He began to interpret her every move and look. His eyes began to follow the play of her hips when she walked. He began to nurse thoughts. After all he deserved to be compensated somehow for having been so nice. So accommodating. So giving of himself. Did he really? He quickly shut his mind down. Everybody else couldn’t be wrong. Vox populi, vox dei, they said.  

What if she turned down his advances? What if she was so disappointed in his conduct, that she upped and left, with baby Miracle in tow? That was his dilemma. A friendly dilemma. He wanted to do something he was loath to, to prove he was the man. To prove he wasn’t a weakling to his co-loaders, wasn’t anybody’s fool. To push a lady who had only given him care to a tiny corner, cowering or staring him down.

On the appointed night, he made sure to visit a bar on his way home. To numb his conscience, to quieten his true self. He finally staggered home. He had gone from a responsible, responsive man to a drunk, a night crawler, all just to defile a symbiotic friendship forged in mutual respect. To prove he wore the pants.

He awoke with a blinding headache. A hangover. The knocker though wouldn’t go away. ‘Who in the devil’s name is it, so early?’ he screamed. ‘It is me, the caretaker’ came the reply. ‘You came in late last night, you forgot to clean the convenience. Kindly do so this morning before the children start preparing for school’, he said. Tagbo sat up, and looked around. His face wincing in pain as his eyes took in the entire room. His clothes were once again scattered everywhere. The glass louvres had gone dusty again and the curtains dirty. The baby and Obidiya had belonged in a dream! He had been sleeping.

He broke into a smile, shaking his head ruefully. So there was no dilemma waiting, friendly or not. He must visit Mama Beaty this Saturday without fail. He would discuss getting married. He had seen first-hand, its wonders, even if a dream. In Nekwa, it was said that one had to be mad for one to marry young; but they also said ‘that madness tastes sweetest when one is still young’.

Nnamdi Wabara, 2016