Their eager submission to all the priest’s charges, grumblings, and accusations proved they considered this a price worth paying for the right to be in the church. The Ibo fear loneliness, regarding it as a curse and a condemnation. Here, they could participate in rites that gave them a sense of community, of belonging. And perhaps something greater stilclass="underline" many African societies have given rise to secret associations, a type of ethnic Freemasonry — secretive, closed, yet important and influential. Sects in Africa often try to model themselves on these traditional institutions, creating an atmosphere of secrecy and exclusivity, instituting their own system of signs and slogans, a distinct liturgy.
To avoid the rudeness of scrutinizing the hall during the service, I did not so much observe as intuit much of what was going on. I had within the scope of my vision only those standing closest to me. I was unable to see the others, but their presence was palpable: the atmosphere of this congregation was so concentrated, so full of vibrant, ecstatic emotion, so pervasive and poignant, that it couldn’t but penetrate and affect everyone. There was so much spontaneity, abandonment, and feeling in these people, so much ardent desire and quivering will and freely expressed sentiment, that one could deduce and comprehend everything that was going on behind one’s back, even far away.
As I was walking toward the exit at the end of the mass, I had to step carefully, because the crowd, their faces concealed from prying eyes, was again kneeling motionless. It was completely silent. The choir was not singing, the orchestra was not playing. The priest stood on the pulpit, tired and depleted, his eyes closed, saying nothing.
The Hole in Onitsha
Onitsha! I have always wanted to see Onitsha. There are certain magical names with seductive, colorful associations — Timbuktu, Lalibela, Casablanca. Likewise Onitsha. It is a small town in eastern Nigeria, and it has the largest market in Africa, perhaps in the world.
In Africa there is a very clear distinction between the open market and what we might call a commercial center or a market hall. The market hall is a fixed structure, one with an architectonic shape, a relatively planned layout, a more or less consistent group of merchants, and a stable clientele. It has permanent reference points — signboards of well-known firms, plaques with the names of big merchants, colorful advertisements, decorative displays. The open market is an entirely different universe. It is vitality, spontaneity, improvisation. It is a folk festival, an outdoor concert. It is first and foremost the domain and kingdom of women, part of their very being. Their life, whether in the countryside or in town, revolves around the fact that they will soon be going to market, to buy or to sell something — or both. Usually, the market is far away, the expedition takes at least a day, and the road there and back (because they walk in a group) gives them an opportunity for conversation, for an exchange of observations and gossip.
And the market itself? It is a place for commerce, but also a meeting place, an escape from the monotony of everyday life, a social event. Going to the market, women first painstakingly arrange each other’s hairdos and put on their best attire. Shopping is accompanied by a fashion show — discreet, unwitting, improvised. If you look at what many of these women are selling or buying, it is difficult to resist the impression that the merchandise is merely a pretext for establishing or maintaining contacts with others. Here is a woman selling three tomatoes. Or several ears of corn. Or a little pot of rice. What profit does she make from this? What can she buy with it? And yet she sits in the market all day. Let us observe her carefully. She sits and talks nonstop with her neighbors, arguing about something, watching the passing crowds, voicing her opinions, making comments. Hungry, she and her friends all swap the products and dishes they had brought to sell, and eat them on the spot. I once observed a fish market in Mopti. Some two hundred women were sitting in a small, sandy square, in the scorching heat. Each had several small fish for sale. I didn’t see anyone who seemed in the least interested in purchasing them, anyone who so much as looked at them, or asked the price. And yet these women were content, chatting, engaged in loud debate, preoccupied with themselves, oblivious to their surroundings. If a customer had appeared, I thought, he would have met with displeasure, for he would have spoiled their fun.
A great marketplace is a huge crowd, a crush. People are pressing on one another, pushing, shoving. As far as the eye can see, an ocean of black heads, as if identically sculpted in basalt, and bright, colorful clothes.
And then trucks drive into all this. They are distributing merchandise. So that no one is run over or killed, there are established rules of conduct governing the trucks’ motion. First, the truck drives a meter into the crowd. It advances slowly, centimeter by centimeter, a little at a time. The women standing or sitting in its path gather their goods into baskets, bowls, and aprons, and, pushing those standing or sitting behind them, wordlessly and obediently move out of the fender’s way, only to return to their places a second later, like waves cut by the prow of a ship.
The African market is a great repository of everything and anything. A veritable mine of the cheap and the shoddy. A mountain of rubbish, gimcrack, and kitsch. There is nothing of any value to a Westerner here, nothing to catch your attention, arouse your admiration, tempt you to possess it. At one end are stacks of identical red and yellow buckets and bowls; at the other, billowing piles of thousands of identical undershirts and sneakers; someplace else still, pyramids of multicolored calicos and glittering rows of nylon dresses and men’s jackets. Only in such a place can one fully appreciate the extent to which the world is swamped with material tenth-rateness, how it is drowning in an ocean of camp, knockoffs, the tasteless and the worthless.
Finally, an opportunity presented itself to go to Onitsha. Now, sitting in the car, I tried to imagine how everything there must look, my mind monstrously multiplying images of markets I had seen, blowing them up many times over until they had attained the proportions of the largest marketplace in the world. My driver was called Omenka and belonged to the shrewd and crafty people raised among the riches of the local oil fields, people who know what money is and exactly how to extract it from their passengers. On the day we first met, I gave him nothing as we parted. He walked away without so much as a good-bye. I dislike cold, formal relations between people and I felt bad. So the next time I gave him 50 naira (the local currency). He said good-bye, and even smiled. Encouraged, I gave him 100 naira the following time. He said good-bye, smiled, and shook my hand. At the subsequent parting, I gave him 150 naira. He said good-bye, smiled, wished me well, and warmly shook my hand, grasping it in both of his. The next time I raised the rate again and paid him 200 naira. He said good-bye, smiled, shook and squeezed my hand, asked me to pay his respects to my family, and with concern in his voice inquired after my health. Without stretching this story out any longer, suffice it to say that I ended up showering him with so many naira that we were simply unable to part. Omenka’s voice was always trembling with emotion, and with tears in his eyes he would swear his everlasting devotion and fidelity.