“Done deal”, she laughed. “RIP, fish.”
I hit the gas, turned the wheel and steered the car forward. I watched the right wing mirror on my side. People dripped out of it onto the pavements with bits of glass embedded in their bodies. I placed my left hand on the lump of key in my pocket, felt its finger guise against my thigh. The fish, the finger and the people were in my head. Swimming at the speed of a bullet from one end to the other, if my head got sliced open they would fall out, bucking with afterlife.
The Advantage of Nmebe Soup
Adesua recalled the advice Mama Uwamusi had given her earlier that morning. The secret of good Nmebe soup is balance and employing a light touch. All the flavours combined must play their part for the overall taste. The wild tomatoes should be ripe but not overly so, the onions sparsely added, a small portion of peppers for the required burst of heat, a sprinkling of bitter leaf. All cooked in the juices of a tender fowl. All around her, people were milling to and from the various stalls, their raised voices an ever-increasing hum. She often wondered whether people who came to the market thought they were in competition so keen was each person to out-shout and out-talk the other.
Apart from Adesua’s duty of cooking the soup, today was a special day for the bridal choice ceremony was to begin at The Royal Palace after the setting of the sun and the market was rife with gossip and high energy. The scent of peppered meats lingered in the air and children with small sugar cane sticks in their mouths, were roaming freely, happy to escape their mother’s heavy hands, their eager fingers quick to reach out and touch whatever caught their restless eyes.
At the furthest stretch of the market next to Ijoma’s fish stand, Adesua saw a young boy eating watermelon who helped himself to another healthy sized piece whilst Ijoma’s back was turned, and was soon chased. There was a juggler dressed in red with multi-coloured pieces of string tied across his head and two sets of white feathers tucked near each of his ears. In the middle of the market, as well as various fruit and farm produce stalls was Esemuede the palm wine seller who was always remarkably merry. Next to him sat Ahere, the one armed beggar accompanied by his dog who was quick to imitate his master and stick a needy paw out at passers by. On the opposite side across from them was Emeka the tailor who sold some of the finest cloths and materials, all laid out in an elaborate fashion to tempt the most disciplined of market visitors. Beside Emeka was the curious figure of Ehinome, the medicine man surrounded by bags of herbal remedies, each designed to resolve ailments such as back pain and bowel trouble.
This was what she loved about market day, the familiar comfort of mayhem that surrounded her. The women with their generous hips and ample bosoms, chopping fish and slaughtering chickens, ignoring the sweat that glistened on their furrowed brows and the sheen it left on their taut skin. The men wielding produce in their powerful arms, jokingly exchanging banter across the amused heads of customers who would at times pass judgement and salute their chosen winner; smoke rising to the sky and the distinctive aroma of goat roasting, your stomach growling, mouth watering and tongue snaking across your lips in approval.
It was during this moment of reverie that Adesua saw what she was destined to purchase on Emeka’s stall. It lay right at the very bottom under a weighty pile of displayed attire and she’d never have even noticed it had it not been for the left corner folded up, like a crooked finger beckoning her towards it.
Emeka smiled knowingly when she reached him.
“Aha, I know what you want, it is the only one of its kind that I have,” he said smoothly removing the desired garment from its position and spreading it on the top where it truly belonged in all its glory. “You will be a vision in this; I have been waiting to sell it to the right person, a person who truly deserves it.”
Adesua resisted the urge to laugh in response, knowing full well that Emeka would have sold it to a giant grasshopper had it presented him with a half decent offer. “It is beautiful,” she whispered, stroking the bold print of deep blue and orange angular lines that your eyes traced until you touched the outer edges kissed with gold.
“My father will give you a week’s supply of farm produce in exchange for this cloth and the matching head dress,” Adesua said careful to keep a pleading expression on her face.
“What? No, no, no,” Emeka responded, shaking his large head from side to side adamantly. “You want people to laugh and say Emeka is a fool. No, you will pay me like everybody else.”
“But I am not trying to get out of paying sir, I am simply giving you another choice of payment, please I am like your daughter. I have nothing to wear for the king’s ceremony.”
At last Emeka agreed, biting heavily into the chewing stick dangling from his mouth. He made a show of packing her item for her, folding and tying it so it rested neatly and addressing people walking past, “Let nobody say Emeka is not a kind man oh! Let nobody say Emeka does not have a heart that gives.” He gestured pulling at his ear lobe urging people to listen, instead they were only fleetingly distracted.
“Thank you sir,” Adesua responded. “You will be well rewarded.”
“Yes, just make sure your father is ready to give me what I am owed, I will pass by in a few days to collect my payment.”
“Yes Papa Emeka.”
“Be sure to tell him I am coming, I do not want to be a bearer of bad news.”
It was only after she picked up her cloth and walked away that Adesua saw the monkey approaching. Before she could react it had jumped on her back, desperately clinging on. She tried to ply its wily brown body off her but it would not relent. It brought its pinched face close to hers and bared its teeth, grabbing at her hair and pulling tufts out, noisily screeching while her hair fell to the ground. It scratched her face and neck drawing blood and she felt a stinging burn on her skin. She screamed at the top of her voice, furiously flailing her arms about and hopping up and down, yet the stubborn animal remained there, boring its black eyes into hers, hissing and spitting angrily. She raised her palm in defence but it shot its head forward and bit her finger. By the time Emeka and a few others reached her, she lay in a heap; there was no hair on the ground, no marks on her body, and no blood.
The monkey had vanished but momentarily Adesua had felt that there was nothing she could do to get that monkey off her back.
It was a sign of things to come.
Will
The cat’s meow drew me outside. I recognised the neighbourhood rambler, black with a split white stripe down its back. It stood on a half smashed green bottle, back arched, body poised. Its amber gaze bore into mine and momentarily it looked like an artist’s sculpture: Cat on a Green Bottle.
“Hey boy,” I cooed gently, tightening my dressing gown. “Get off that.” I bent down to shoo it off amazed it had at all managed to balance on the bottle. Smoke filled its eyes as it leapt off in a nifty trick. The bottle rolled towards my feet, and its jagged base stared down my fluffy slippers in an unequal stand off. The cat circled, tail upright like an antenna drawing an invisible line in the air before approaching the bottle again. It leaned low, stretched its neck, shot its tongue out and licked, deftly avoiding shards.
I slapped my hands together. “Stop that! You’re a bad boy.” I ran indoors, grabbed the plastic bag that was a green tongue poking out of the kitchen drawer. By the time I re-emerged, the troublemaker had disappeared into the shrubbery separating my house from the neighbour’s. The sky was shedding one darkening blue to reveal another. I scooped up the bottle by its neck, sniffed. It smelled like palm wine. Fermented wine was a sharp scent that lingered; I wondered if the smell would remain in my nostrils throughout the rest of the day.