Why did I wear white on today of all days? I thought.
The Omitoro market day was held every four days and I knew things would be sold better that Thursday. Seeing as things were less expensive then, people were always on a rush those days.
I winced as an overweight woman whose wrapper somehow seemed to untie itself, stepped on my toes with her two inch heel slippers. She yelled at me, glaring and cursing. One would think I was the one who had stepped on her.
Ah an, I thought, Is it my fault that Nigeria is so bad? I dared not say it out though. One, I had been brought up never to talk back at an adult -my mum once beat my cheeks till they bled with a turning stick when I asked a friend of hers why she had a deep manly voice? Did she smoke? I asked- and two, this woman could beat me to a pulp right there. I swallowed my words by hissing and moved on.
I sighted a pepper seller's stand a few feet away and walked up to it.
"Good Afternoon" I greeted in Yoruba, which was one of the few words I could say well to hold a conversation in Yoruba.
I had spent the first 11 years of my life getting punished by my parents and teachers for speaking Yoruba at any point, and now at 15 the same parents were on my neck for not being able to speak it fluently -or at all.
The pepper seller glanced up and nodded. I picked one pepper plastic, "Helo nee plastic karn?" I said which should have been "Elo ni ile kan?" Which would mean "How much is one part, or layer?"
"Orndred noira" the woman said.
Ehn! Hundred wetin?
I looked at the tomatoes before me, wrinkly and dull looking, four pieces, each the size of my thumb nails - which are actually short and stubby so...
Where was this country headed?
I left the stand without bothering to bargain. I would eventually buy pepper worth five hundred naira after visiting three other stands, and when I would ask for Fisi -extra- I was given only two measley looking "Sombo" -chili peppers.
At the Okra stand, the woman tried to convince me that Okra that was probably stale was as fresh as two hours ago. She was Igbo.
She held them up, "See, I plucked this thing personally. It fresh die."
Yes you did, I thought, OVER ONE WEEK AGO.
She was fair skinned with castor oil tatoos on the elbow to wrist of her left hand.
"I'm not buying, thank you." I said turning to leave.
"Customer, customer!! Oya come back!" She called.
I looked back to see her bringing out a bowl from under her stall, and putting new Okra on the table.
I shook my head in disappointment. So she did have good ones. I knew I could use it to my advantage and I did, getting her to sell it really cheap.
I bought meat also -Yes, 'cause Panla fish was too expensive and a pack of Chicken flavour seasoning which was twenty naira more expensive than before.
While heading to a shop to grind the pepper after buying Onions. My Nokia X2 -where others were using androids- rang out, a Dare Art Alade song.
It was my classmate, Fiyin. I really didn't want to pick it. That was my second day of missing school and I knew they were curious. I answered the call anyway though.
"Hey"
"Bukky, why are you not coming to school?"
"Woo I'm not feeling fine jare." I said.
"What is the nature of the sickness?" She asked.
"Malaria" I lied. Wasn't it always?
Every sickness was Malaria at general hospitals.
I hung up, heaving a sigh of relief.
My parents had not been able to pay my second term school fees on time. The private school I attended was fairly expensive but it was their fault though for insisiting that was the school I would attend. They had a dislike for Public secondary schools and had vowed that their children would not go there.
The would always use our neighbour's son Kunle as a bad example who came out a vagabond. "See what public school did to his life. He's been arrested twice, smokes, drinks and steals."
Pushing painful thoughts away, I bent over to pick up the cover of our grinding bowl when three kids ran by, toppling the woman as she wanted to pour the blended pepper. Her hand shook and the next thing I felt was a wet substance on the back of my white dress.
Jesus, I muttered.
"Chaiii, Anti no vex o. Pleas-Eh. Stupid children."
She started to help me rinse it, doing a successful job of making worse. Looking back, it looked like I had a period stain.
I hissed for the umpteenth time that day and picked my things and left fuming.
I didn't notice a boy riding a bike fast and oncoming. Before I could say Jack Robinson, he had splashed mud on the lower half of my body.
"Aaaaargh!!! Is this one mad ni?!"
The boy hardly looked back, driving even faster away. I wanted to faint. Why me? I couldn't help but notice the pity stares I was getting. I must have looked a sight.
In my peripheral vision I saw the familiar colours of my school's uniform. And they were not just schoolmates, they were classmates of mine.
Darn it, I said frustrated. I knew they'd seen me, it was too late.
"Bukola!" "Bukky!"
I just wished the ground would open up and digest me.
I tried to cover my face walking faster.
I boarded a motorcycle quickly, ordering it to my doorstep.I heard them still calling out to me.
The only thoughts in my mind were, "If I come to this life gain, I'll not be born in Nigeria but America" , "None of my children will be born in this foolish country." I was on the verge of tears from frustration.
After he dropped me off, I paid and walked into our compound.
Going through the back door instead, I set everything on the kitchen slab. My mother was in the kitchen.
"You're late." She said, "Hurry and pour the kerosene in the stove, you know there's no gas again. Your daddy will soon be back."
Oh my God, I forgot to buy the kerosene.
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