January 10, 2018

The entire day was damp with gloom that only got heavier when he came. Everything felt wrong. Earlier that morning, we had a fight that widened the rift between Abisola, my big sister, and me. I called her a toxic and deceptive narcissist who would never accept anything as her fault. Even when she wore her guilt in a cloak of trembling hands and a shaky voice, Abisola had something in her that never quavered– her ego.

Maami’s soup tasted unusually stale, and long after we sat to eat, only my plate was still left untouched. Tonight, it was not the food that bothered me. I never really cared for asaro, yam porridge, anyway.

8:15 pm

I could think of one thing and one thing alone– my broken glasses. How would I open my gormless mouth to tell Maami that I had left my glasses in my backpack without the case, during sports break in school, and my seat partner, Chioma, had sat on it, shattering the lens?

I had so badly wanted to hit her with a clenched fist, and then spill demeaning words all over her. But I knew Chioma well and truly. Everyone knew Chioma Eze. During the morning assembly one day, her mother had stormed the school in tears and fervent pleas. Chioma had been sent home for her inability to pay the meagre tuition fee. Her mother pleaded unrelentingly with the principal, crawling on her knees, to let Chioma stay. The old man had no choice in the face of streaming tears.

And now, it was Chioma who wouldn’t stop crying. We all knew that I could hit her from that morning till forever and I still would not get a new lens. So I said, as calmly as I could…

“It’s okay, Chi. I’ll sort it.”

I knew sorting anything out at home, given how difficult things were, would be burdensome. Maami and Baami were at it again. Serenity had become a luxury. The only air of calmness that existed was at Maami’s grocery shop, where I sat every night, soaking in the dark.

It was on one of those nights that he came by. I sat dejectedly on the backless bench, between tears and fright. Maami and Abisola had left earlier for the evening market and were yet to return. She always spoke of how things were sold the cheapest at night. I was left alone in the shop. Not much happened around the neighborhood. It had rained earlier, and the cold breeze was quite likely lulling and caressing everyone to bed.

Having been in the market for over a decade, one would think I would have gotten used to troublesome customers. They still got under my skin with their gimmicks. Many times, I wondered if these were people like us, who had lives and families and challenges. And if they saw the rest of us the same way. They so callously offered ridiculous prices for items, and then tried to yell the shop down at the slightest mistake. I wondered if they understood that trading was a noble endeavour; that we were not miserable beggars looking to be fed.

One of those ‘bitter buyers’ had threatened to hit me one day, when I miscalculated her goods. She accused me of trying to steal from her. Maami rained heavy insults on her and sent her on her way. She never returned.

This had us appreciating the few good and jolly customers that came around. Mama Tokunbo was our favorite. We called her Mama Tee. She was as generous as she was rigid. Abisola and I, Maami too, found that we were most elated when Mama Tee was around. Even Tokunbo, her baby, inherited her ‘happy gene’ and glow. Everyone wanted to hold the child each second of every minute.

As I rampaged in my thoughts that night, with tears welling up in my eyes, one arm akimbo and the other resting on my chin, a man who must have been in his early twenties knocked on the burglary door, but I was too lost in thoughts to hear. It went on and on, till the hardest and loudest bang jolted me from my thoughts, almost knocking me off the bench.

“Sorry. Sorry, what do you want?”
My voice trembled as I asked the puzzled figure. I still sat while he stood there, calm. He wore a multicolored tank top and a black pair of trousers.

“Maybe he likes to show off his biceps,” I hummed to myself.

“Sorry, what do you want to buy?” I bellowed.
He still had not said a word. This irritated me. It had to be yet another annoying customer. I was hoping I had seen the last of them for the day.

But all the while, he was doing something that I hadn’t cared to notice in time. He put out his right arm and turned his palm towards me. I didn’t understand what this meant. It seemed like he was trying to show me something, but then, I was upset and irritated, and wouldn’t move an inch from where I stood.

“Aren’t you going to say what you want?”
The young man was making efforts. He was trying to mutter something but it was inaudible and incoherent. He then beckoned on me to move closer and, this time, I obliged. He, too, looked tensed as he held up his pinkish-red palm to my face. I couldn’t see anything. It was hazy, vague, blur, every word that made sense to someone with a myopic sight; one who had been without her glasses for a while.

A fortnight ago, a group of armed robbers had attacked a line of shops on the next street. This left the families devastated. The Landlords Association around the area had ordered that no shop should still be left open after 9 pm. Crime was on the rise. No one wanted to be the next victim. Maami had instructed us to always ensure that the burglary door was locked, especially at night.

In truth, no one went around carrying a placard with ‘Armed Robber’ inscribed on it. Yet, I was strangely convinced that this man that stood before me– this man whose eyes bulged and shimmered in the light– couldn’t have been a thief. Or maybe he was. Maybe we’re all thieves, one way or another. Just not on that night, he wasn’t. I marched closer and held his hand fearlessly. I peered into his palm.

“I need two bags of water” was legibly written on it.
I had read it aloud in a rather ridiculing tone, and shame soon swallowed my voice as he nodded in affirmation. I hastened to the back of the shop where we kept the bags of water.

“Was he playing tricks?”
“Could this be how they got unsuspecting people to let their guard down?”
“Could he really be dumb?”

Tears trickled down my face. Moments ago, I cried over my damaged glasses and how I could barely see. But I could say a zillion words in less than a minute. And here was a man, with bold biceps and pretty eyes, who couldn’t utter even a single word. I could feel my heart shattering in my chest. I was sorry, for him first, and then for myself.

One part of me wished I hadn’t screamed when he first didn’t answer my questions. The other part wished he had hurled insults back at me. Just how silly was I? I should have understood his gestures. I should have checked his damn palm. But how could I have known? How could I have jumped on an offer to read a man’s palm when I was almost as good as blind myself?

The loud bang yanked me back from my thoughts again, and I realized that I had left him to wait. I hurriedly pulled two bags of water and briskly handed them to him.

Feb 12, 2018

Mama Tee was seated in the shop, chatting in loud voices and cheerful laughter, with maami, who held Tokunbo. I roamed about, picking up her things and throwing them in a bag.

“Ayanfe, please get me my purse from the car. It’s in the glove box. Quickly,” Mama Tee beckoned.

I dropped the bag and hurried to the car parked opposite Maami’s shop. This was the first time I would be in Mama Tee’s car, unlike Abisola. The inside felt warm and had her fruity scent. I picked up the green, glossy luxury purse, and just as I was about to turn around and shut the door, I caught a glimpse of a figure, a man, in the car.

Exactly two weeks ago, I had finally mustered the courage to speak to Maami about my damaged glasses. That was after she and Baami had settled their rift, with the intervention of my paternal grandmother.

On hearing of it, Maami was first filled with rage. I needed no prophet to tell me why. Things were difficult. Sales were slow and tiring, and Baami was irresponsible. He knew nothing of how we fed, how we made it through school, what health challenges we faced.

I soon realized that Maami’s annoyance came from having kept it away from her for so long. She promised that we would visit the eye clinic by the weekend. Maami had always been protective of our welfare, even when it felt like the rest of the world pulled us down. She was the one reliable thing in our lives.

But today, even with my bad sight, I could clearly make out this figure– this man. He was turned the other way, fast asleep. Yet, I didn’t need to see his face. He still had the fringe afro hairstyle and the multicolored tank top. I fought the urge to tap his shoulder, to have him raise his head and satisfy my curiosity. Standing there, transfixed to a spot, my head felt heavy with questions.

“Why was he in Mama Tee’s car?”
“Did Mama Tee have a son?”
“Or was he her sibling, maybe?
“Why had she never mentioned him to me or Maami, or Abisola?”
“Had he always been left in the car whenever Mama Tee was around?”

“Ayanfe o! Is the purse too heavy to carry?” Mama Tee screamed and I was woken to my reality. I rushed back to the shop and handed her the purse. She was beaming with smiles, deep in her conversation with Maami. Tokunbo, the happy child, kept bouncing on Maami’s lap.

I couldn’t wait for Mama Tee to leave. Many questions raced through my mind as I bit my lower lip in impatience. I wanted to ask Maami and Abisola about the voiceless man. Had they seen him too? Was he the one thing we were forbidden to speak about? My eyes were misty; a mixture of fear and fury. None of the women noticed.

I heaved a sigh of relief when Mama Tee finally stepped out. Turning to Maami almost immediately, with my most curious look and voice, I said…
“Maami, tell me everything you know about Mama Tokunbo.”

_{Mariam Tijani is a poet based in Lagos, Nigeria. She is an art enthusiast who incessantly dreams of creating, curating, and impacting lives through art and aesthetics that tell stories of everyday people. She is currently an undergraduate at the University of Lagos, Nigeria}.

_{Her current biggest inspirations are exciting reviews of her works by Tochukwu Eze, Di MadWriter. When she isn’t exploring arts and designs, she’s learning new recipes and taking baking classes.
Twitter: @mariamtijanii.}