(CONT'D)
“Warri… Warri…” Aishat recounted to her family later that night, as she sounded as if she spoke through a throatful of tightly packed phlegm.
“The Landlord was going to have his bath jejely o, when he caught her,” Aishat said, (she was now talking normally)
“He was tying a towel when Mama Bornboy suddenly grabbed his towel, almost letting it loose, and flung her potty into the air as though she were spraying money on an exquisite couple at a traditional wedding.” she laughed, and so did every other person in the parlor
”Nyama!” Gbenga said. Aishat ignored him and continued, “he was shocked and didn’t even know when he started pleading. Moles of Mama Bornboy’s shit were hanging and dripping from everywhere, even Baba Landlord got some piece on his bald head.”
Some of them had started laughing again, but she continued, “I think she must have caught some of his pubic hair combined with the craze of the splashed shit.” They all laughed out loud yet again. Since that fateful day, the landlord has been stylishly avoiding the madwoman as it was near impossible to evict her from his house.
Mama Bornboy was trouble; with her protuberant belly and magnificent buttocks. She gave birth to ten children, -all boys, three died at child birth- hence the moniker “Mama Born boy” was birthed.
“I couldn’t find the corks,” Gbenga quickly announced as he placed the bowl of bottles at Ali’s feet in order not to receive a resetting slap or thunderous knock.
“I think Suuru took it.” He lied, (Suuru was Mama Bornboy’s fourth child, Gbenga’s abettor). It was futile nonetheless, because Gbenga never saw the knock coming. Ali pretended to believe his lies in other to allow Gbenga some space to feel comfortable; but when it did strike him, it left him writhing on the floor.
“My friend bring those bottles closer!” Mama Ali ordered whilst he writhed in pain.
“A child that says his mother will not sleep, he himself will know no peace. It did not touch you very well. Nonsense.” She chastised him.
Ali and his mother filled each bottle with groundnuts --they were of different sizes. Mama Ali was a judicious petty trader; she sold different goods and rendered various services that change as the seasons.
“These big big bottles are five hundred naira,” she said to Gbenga some minutes later, who now sat coolly studying an army of ants that marched across the gutter,
“can you hear me? You have started playing again abi? You this boy! You will not kill me” Mama Ali lamented. Gbenga furrowed and grumbled which almost brought down the wrath of Ali again, “Ehn?! You said what?” Ali asked, suddenly alert to the boy’s protest.
“Nothing” Gbenga replied.
“Those bottles, the big ones,” Mama Ali repeated, pointing to the bottles, “it’s five hundred naira; last price four hundred and eighty naira, that’s if the person has good mouth,” she said, as she held her left ear tightly, which signifies that the little boy had ears and they were meant for listening to instructions.
“These small bottles are three hundred naira last last, and these kenkele ones are hundred naira.” She revealed, “Shey you heard me?” she sought his confirmation, “Yes Maami I got it.” Gbenga said. “Good, now go and call your sister for me let her hear it from me before she go and do Good Samaritan with my groundnuts” Mama Ali ordered.
****Glossary****
Jejely: calmly; softly; gently
Nyama: something nasty
Good mouth: courtesy
Kenkele: smaller than small
“Maami let me go and rest a bit, I’m on night shift today” Ali said, and left his mother as she added her newly made goods to old stock.
***Mama Ali’s Inventory***
1 dozen of sachet Peak milk
3 tins of Three Crowns milk
5 tins of Peak milk
6 bags of sachet pure water
5 pieces of sachet Milo
2 dozens of sachet Cowbell chocolate milk
8 tins of tomato paste
1 carton of Indomie super pack
1 empty carton of Indomie ‘hungry-man size’
3 plastic cans filled with sweets, sugar and seasoning cubes
Half-full 5 litres plastic of palm oil
Empty 5 litres plastic of groundnut oil
Empty crates of soft drinks
11 bottles of groundnuts
2 Ancient mechanical and electric grinding machines
A worn-out sewing machine...
(To be continued.)
©Angel MESSI
No comments:
Post a Comment