The market, Eke market, is scanty today. I wonder why it is so because, it's been a long time since the sun set out on its daily journey towards the eastern end of the big river.
It surprises me because the people here are not known to be lazy. They are not the type of people that let the sun rise before they do. And I am annoyed, in addition to being surprised because, I’ve already decided to cook ofe akwụ today, only to discover now, that whereas there's akwụ and ụgụ in the market, there's no one selling the other ingredients: okpeye, mangala, arigbe, kpomo, etc, used to make ofe akwụ.
The sheds are deserted and the stalls are locked up. It reminds me of the day they reportedly, shot people around here.
The market was deserted for days. One could only see the rows and rows of broken tables and thatch made of nylon bags but, no wares to buy. Those days were difficult.
I ask a woman beside me, who’s hurriedly parking her wares of wraps of pounded akpụ, what is going on, why there's no one in the market and she answers “they all ran off, not long ago, all of them, to their children's schools to go get them. They say some killer northerners are forcibly injecting the children with poison.” She talks excitedly, high spiritedly and, somewhat happy. It confuses me.
And so, I ask her why she's so excited with the situation, with all the uncertainty and confusion (not more than a minute ago, I’ve seen at least three mothers I know, running, frantic, looking for their children,) and she says that it's because God has exposed the evil doers.
“They want to kill our children or give them disease that’ll kill all of us but, God pass them,” she says, raising her hands up to the heavens, in apparent gratitude. “Thanks to God, my own children are on their way home. Let me go and cook lunch for them,” she hastens up.
I stare at her, at the simplicity of her clothing, at the shinny sheen of the cheap sequin design on her wrapper and blouse and how little her wares are. A few wraps of cooked akpụ in a transparent plastic bucket.
I wonder whether she is a little bit more complicated in her head. I figure it'll do her a lot of Good, help her understand things better before running.
Yet, I don’t blame her, she’s only but, a reflection of the society in which is one of the many downtrodden, grappling with things in the dark, forgotten by the government.
The sun is blazing high with fury now, as if it’ll rain shortly. The weather is not good for me, considering the hunger gnawing on my stomach lining and the banging in my head, following a sleepless night at work; I had it hot last night with late night emergencies.
I feel so hungry and so, I cross over to the other side of the road to look for akara and bread or something but, I find none. Apparently, the woman who usually sells akara has some little children too, to look after.
My knees ache and so, I sit on the little stool in my customers shade which is also deserted. My Benue woman customer is a very scared woman with a lot of scars from what’s seen in her home town in Benue state. She always tells me stories about the horror she experienced in the hands of armed cattle herders.
I try to read some short stories but, the light from the phone hurts my eyes so, I settle to looking at the dirty things surrounding me, like this basket of akwụ. Like the stagnant drainage channels. Like the tangle of nylon waste bags on the narrow tarmac.
I am also, trying to make out why the confusion? Is it that there’s an immunization drive and the people were not informed? Could there actually be a terrorist attack?
I know the latter is highly unlikely. But, like they say, one must always try to consider all possibilities. Is there anything that’s not possible in this country? Just tell me. Is There? I am distracted by raised voices.
There’s a group of women directly in my view, across the narrow path, just in front of the shop that sells things for native medicine. They’re chattering about the same thing. Rumors spread like wild fire down here. And some of them talk with raised voices.
Yet, there’s is a relaxed mood in their midst. Apparently, they have all packed their wares long ago and most of them have brought their kids home. It shows the glee in their faces as they chatter away, gesticulating, snapping their fingers, heaving their shoulders up and down, waiting for their friend’s children to return home before they resume the days affairs in the market.
One of them says that her husband has just driven off to go pick up their son. “By God’s grace, they’ll be back soon.” She’s the slim dark one with an accent that suggests she’s from Ebonyi state.
The fair one, whose skin is the color of ripe mango, says the same. And the fat rotund one with a big ass and massive flabby breasts gets furious and says, raising her voice, beating her breasts, “to God who made me, if the northerners ever touch my child, I’ll personally lead the war against them. Idiots and blood suckers. They want our land but, they’ll never have it. They think they can kill our children? But, they’re going to fail!”
She feels satisfied and tensed up at the same time. Satisfied, I guess, from the support she has around her, as most of the women cheer for her.
“Iron lady!” “Nwanyị Obosi!” “Action woman!” They hail her. Tensed up I guess, from the fact that she’s tying and retying her wrapper as if preparing for an actual fight.
But, there’s one among them who doesn’t seem to agree that there’s an attack on the children. She’s slim and wears a heavy makeup. But, it doesn’t mask the apparent burns on her skin. Possibly from Bleaching.
I recon she’s just a frustrated customer like me who’s finding the situation difficult. I become certain when she starts speaking because, her English is impeccable, though with an accent that gives her away as a Yoruba. She doesn’t speak the common tongue, the one that's spoken at Eke.
“It is not a terrorist attack,” she begins, to the utter chagrin of the market women. “It’s just an immunization drive. It must have been announced but, since people no longer listen to their radios I guess only a few heard about it. Thus, the pandemonium.”
She speaks with certainty. She’s helped by her towering height and polished words and I guess that’s why they’re giving her a lot of time to explain herself. Normally, the women here don’t like a counter opinion when they’ve agreed on something about ‘the enemy.’
But, something tells me that the they aren’t going to let her speak for long. I remember the last time a man tried to diffuse such a rumor at the paper stand at the junction. That one was about the operation Python dance or something. The guy got a beating. So much beating that he was shut up, immediately.
And just now, someone is countering the polished lady. It is the rotund one and she shouting “shut up! You’re just like them, you think you can cover evil with big grammar? Mechie gị ọnụ there!”
There’s another round of cheer from her cheer leaders.
“Oké nwanyị Obosi!” “Agbala nwanyị!” They raise their voices and fists.
“Tell her, iron Lady. Tell the educated idiot!” The fair one put In.
And the polished lady replies her with some fast English. “For your information, I am a nurse and I know what immunization is….” But, she doesn’t finish her words.
The rotund one doesn’t let her finish. She springs up like a leopard and grabs the other woman by the collars of her pink colored, well ironed shirt.
“Osi na bụ nọsụ?” the short black one laughs. The others join her.
And soon, the slim polished one is feeling uncomfortable. I notice because she’s picking up her bags and looking for a way out of the circle of angry women, forming around her, and from the firm grip of the fat woman.
I notice too, that I’m beginning to feel sorry for her, and so I stand up to go help her. I know that the women-some of them, know me and will listen to me. They always listen to doc.
But, there’s suddenly a smile on the fat woman’s face as I cautiously approach the circle of women. The smile widens to a wide grin, loosening the tension that’s been on her face and the power in her hands and so she let go of the polished woman, breaks the circle of women, and runs towards a little girl who’s also running towards her.
The other women are watching. Just like the other spectators like me. It’s a beautiful thing to see-mother running to embrace child, in spite of the fear or should I say relief on the little girl’s face which is unmistakably that of a little child who’s just seen what she shouldn’t be seeing at her age.
The little child and the woman both embrace. The girls piercingly touching cry “mummy mụooooo!,” meeting the woman’s joyous purr “my beautiful child!”
The woman lifts the child up and before I could blink they both stop in front of me. “Please examine her doc,” the woman pleads.
A lot of people know me around here even though I find it difficult to place their faces.
“Please doc,” she sounds desperate. “I don’t know what those pythons want with our children?”
I notice that I’m about to cry because the little girl has a combination of painful emotions on her face, a combination of fear and relief and more fear; I can even see the dried tears on her cheeks. And so, I check her up quickly and assures the woman that her child was not touched by anyone, that she’s safe.
I tug at the child’s cheeks as I make for my Volkswagen.
***
On my way home now, and I’m still tired and hungry. I am trying to listen to Sia and come to terms with the fact that instead of the brilliant ofe akwụ I had in mind last night, that I am going to be cooking some bland tin tomato stew, shortly but, all I can see in my mind is the look on that little girl’s face as she ‘ran for her life.’
I realize how it reflects the broken nature of our country, the sad situation in which we find ourselves. Disunited and dispirited. To the point that people do not trust the military anymore, an arm of the government, meant for protecting the people.
I realize that I’d have run too, had I seen soldiers who were reportedly shooting people some time ago, coming to probably, forcefully, give me some injections, in the midst of a strong rumor that they’re trying to kill me and my people.
There’s a zebra crossing in ahead of me. It was put there for school children from the missionary school. A lot of children, apparently, running home are trying to use it.
I am usually impatient but, now, I stop to let the children pass. No impatient blaring of my horn. I feel sorry for the kids.
I’m really hurt that they’re growing up in such a hostile country as ours.
©Nnaemeka Ugwu
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