Ajifa

The feeling of being in Alemu market is one I can almost taste in my mouth. In the whole deadspot of Dhekina, it is the one place that truly makes me feel happy and nothing I can say can fully capture the amount of life bustling in the market.

To me, Alemu market is a stage of beautiful chaos, with everyone trying to play their parts well because if you don’t, you lose, and I cannot lose, my auntie doesn’t give me that choice.

The clayor pot on my head is supported by my hands on both sides to prevent it from being knocked off as I weave through the myriad of people and colors, going and coming, crammed in the space between shops and selling spots. I am so accustomed to this movement that it feels like dancing, the view from above must be great.

“ chop one chop two okpa,”

I call out my hawking phrase, altering my voice to sound older than I am. In the four years I have been hawking in the market, I have developed a signature tone that helps me stand out from the other sellers and makes my customers recognise me, but I do not have any customers in this part of the market, I only chose this way to avoid the market guards.

Mountains of rice, beans, grains and dry spices in metal basins are lined on both sides of the path. The merchants who sell them, mostly men, dressed in single colored robes made from a thin material from the looks of it. Some wear shawls that cover most of their face, especially those who sell sweetened dried ground pepper known as yaji.

I try to remain in the middle of the way in hopes not to tip over any of the food in metal bases. The sellers here are not quick to forgive anyone who knocks over their goods, especially not a hawker, who cannot pay back. Probably even won’t let me go if I can’t; I think. I don’t blame them for behaving this way, after all a million grains fallen can never be recovered as same . I try not to run into buyers either as that would mean delay or insult from those dressed in fine buba and wrappa.

I pause at the corner that leads me out of this part of the market and look around. if Alemu market isn’t like a second home to me. I would have been drawn in by the sight of men and women trying to convincing buyers their goods is the best, young hawkers following buyers with their goods even though they looked uninterested and the women who harmonize their voice, calling out “better paper yams here,” but I am not drawn in. Doing so will make me “looku looku” unconscious of myself and the person that will surely take advantage of my distraction and swiftly steal my Kobo coins like they were never there. People don’t call the pickpockets in the market ghost hands for nothing.

I sigh as I see no guard and move forward, calling out “chop one chop two okpa.” Hawkers are expected to pay a fine at the market gate, I don’t remember the last time I came through that entrance. The fee charged is almost the amount I make daily and even if it was as cheap as the leaf wrapped okpa I sell at three kobo each, I know my auntie still wouldn’t give me the money to pay. So every day I sneak into the market through a hole in the market block fence although, the hole has been claimed by one of the market urchin Lords and I have to pay five kobo to his representative at the hole, Kunle, for passage.

The ground goes from dry to muddy as I walk on, pools of muddy water gathered around. The smell of tomatoes, fresh and rotting, takes the air as I walk into where perishable foods are sold. The women who sell here are sharp mouthed, something they adopt to sell their goods faster. Walking, I catch phrases like

“you know me now, this my smoked fish is the best in this Alemu market,”

“This is correct tomatoes, see as the body fresh,”

“ the work that I put into making this Akpu ehn, I will surely not get my moneys worth.”

phrases are accompanied by smiles and energetic gestures. One of the best market strategy I know of is Mama ijoma's, a woman who sells tomatoes and other vegetables and have on plenty occassiins bought okpa from me. Mama ijeoma lets her daughter be the face of her business, to lure customers and then she deals with them herself. it works so well she has become a topic of gossip and rude remarks among the other tomato sellers and even among those who don’t sell tomatoes. I guess they’re jealous because they don’t have daughters that are not young or neat enough to attract customers. I do not like any of them anyways, they haven’t ever bought okpa from me.

I want to wave at ijeoma as I pass by their spot, marked by a purple overhead tent, Then I hear someone ccal “Mé okpa.” I turned towards where the sound came from, responding to what is basically my second name. I walk there and drop the pot from my head and greet the woman who had called me.

“Peace.” I greet.

The plum woman doesn’t return my greeting but she doesn't need to do this for me to know who she is. From the fine patterns drawn on her skin, to the well shaped buba she wears, to the beautifully patterned wrapper around her waist. I can tell, She works for an Amana and lives in a barak. I know she doesn’t recognize me.

In Dhekina, there are two types of people, Amana and kele. Those who live within the wall and those who don’t. It only takes having a brain to realise which is wealthy and which is poor. The people who live in the baraks are the rich ones outside the wall though. They comprise of a Amana families pushed out to accommodate deeper pockets called highborn, people who work within the walls and the occasional Street Lord who claws his way out of poverty by dealings nobody needs assurance to know are illegal.

Most of the people who live in baraks, like my uncle and his family, are in the business of deluding themselves that they are not kele. But everybody knows that even if you live a foot away from the wall, you are kele, like it or not.

I give the woman my selling face. Not a smile but bright eyes and slightly slanting lips. A small girl stands beside the woman looking frail, Carrying a basket filled with goods the woman must have bought. I can tell instantly that the girl isn’t being fed well. She’s probably from a family in the slums. Her parents receiving pay for her service.

“How much for one okpa?” the woman asks in an exaggerated accent laced with impatience.

I smile inwardly.

“It’s just five Kobo” I say

“5 kobo for one okpa?” the woman asks frowning.

The fact that that she doesn’t turn away immediately makes me know that she hasn’t bought okpa in a while.

“This is Alemu market,” I say. Go and ask for the price of okpa seed."

I adjust the layer of the black unà leaves which retain heat and prevent the okpa from going cold. Steam rises from the pot and the space between us is soon filled with the enticing smell that gives assurance of great taste. Once the woman takes in the scent, I know because her face changes. And I know she needs no further convincing. It’s either she turns away quickly or she buys.

“Give me five,” she says.

I bite my lips to stop myself from smiling. I take out five okpa and wrap them in unà leaves and place them in the basket on the girl’s head. I look into her face. Beautiful light brown eyes. I notice the small smile on her lips. Somehow, I can tell she knows okpa don’t sell for five Kobo per wrap. I give her a small smile of my own. She would probably look back to this moment when she is being starved or served the scraps of the table and find comfort knowing a girl Like her, older but like her, had cheated her madam and gotten away with it. The woman hands me 25 Kobo coins from a money pouch, Unlike the market women who keep their money in a knot tied at the end of their wrappa, well tucked and impossible to snatch

“Thank you ma.” I say mounting the pot back on my head. But the woman is already walking away. I give the girl with the basket one last glance and turn away, knowing what had just happened was largely based on luck and no haggling skill of mine. You don’t even haggle when it comes to food like okpa.

My mind runs with the possibility of what I can do with the extra 10 Kobo I have just earned. The smoke fish I have been longing for doesn’t seem like a dream anymore. With only one okpa left for me to sell, I call out my Hawking phrase and anyone listening can hear the joy in my voice. I haven’t even begun to feel the heat of the sun at the back of my neck and I am almost done. Today is a good day.

I turn and choose a route that will lead me back to the hidden hole in the market’s wall. But I make an abrupt stop when I see two guards not far from me, facing the other way. The joy that warms my chest balls into apprehension and drops into my stomach. Before I can choose what to do next , a firm hand grabs hold of me and I turn to see a guard, black piece of cloth draped across his chest markings on his face and a fat stick in hand. The scream that wants to bust out from me catches in my throat.

“Where is your ticket?” the guard ask for the piece of cloth given to hawkers at the gate after the fine is paid.

He must have noticed my bare hand.

“Abeg, I only sell okpa,” I say kneeling down and dropping the pot for my head with my free hand and resting it behind me.

From his eyes and his hardened features, I can tell that the guard will not budge, but I am not counting on that. I slip my hand into the pot once it’s resting on the ground. I search around the pot with my free hand trying to locate the last wrap of okpa still left.

“ if ticket no dey, you will drop all your money and everything now!” the guard commands. My heart hammers as I search frantically for the okpa, then my hand locates the very hot wrap. People stop to stare as I beg the guard but I do not look at them.

“oga abeg,” I say but the guard drags me to my feet with such force that the bones in that hand begin to ache. Without hesitation, I take my chance and throw the hot wrap at his face, bite his hand that holds me and I grab my pot without waiting to see the guards reaction beyond the growl he lets out at my bite. I clutch the pot to my chest as if my life is tethered to it and run without looking back

“Kai,” I hear the guard scream from behind me “catch that girl.” but I am not ready to be caught.

I twist, squeeze, duck and push my way through the crowd of people, not looking back to see if the guard is chasing me. I choose tighter spaces which are easier for me because of my small size to squeeze through. I run and run, attaching no sense of direction to myself, I just run. People shout insults at me as I bump into some of them but I do not stop. When I finally do, it feels like I have been running for hours. I hide behind a set of barrels close to wall, lucky that I did not come into any other guard in my flight. The barrel shop is close to a four path crossroad.

As I catch my breath, I decide which way to take. Forward would lead me to an old part of the market, no hawker, ticket or not is allowed in. People say it is because Amana go there personally to buy expensive clothing, books and things that make their animals talk. The way to the right is a way I have never taken and cannot risk and I cannot go back. So I get up and take the left way that leads to the one thing I hate about Alemu market, the Parade.