A Costly Mistake.

From Birmingham museum trust on Unsplash.

I went to Bodija market to ask for long-grain rice. One market woman glanced left and right, and whispered close to me: “Do you mean Cocaine?”

I was taken aback with excessive force, but I recovered, and the glee that is ever so present in me when I encounter new experiences urged me to carry on and test the theory.

“Yes,” I said, “I’m after that long-grain rice.”

She donned a knowing smile, like one proud of her great achievement, which is, in this case, discerning my true wish.

Her hand raised and slammed on her lap, and her lips summoned an assistant from inside her stall.

“Kaseem, come oh. Come and show Customer the way.”

A young boy jumped out, first of all, poking his head to peep at me. His gait walked displeased and sleepy, and he leaned his arms on the top of a table and glared coldly at my face.

From his midget height, I surmised him to be about twelve years old.

She bent to his ears and, after a short pause, he held my hands and dragged me along.

I peered sideways as we descended into the heart of the market, dodging barrow pushers, gutters, and diving past sketchy canals, till we halted at a spot where a group of black-wearing polos sat, smoking and laughing and drinking together.

The mood shifted.

I descended like a plague upon the atmosphere for I was not girdled in the obvious black apparel but wore a yellow shirt over blue shorts.

Their big boss stood up. He paced to me with a command that assembled a few behind him.

I raised my eyebrows and paused awhile in rapt attention, but Kaseem stepped between our midst and separated us with a plea.

“Na Iyale client be this oh!”

The big boss nodded and his threatening aura retreated, allowing his boys to disperse at their will.

“Oga, wetin you dey find?”

I realised I was being questioned and replied:

“I’m after that long-grain rice.”

The big boss smiled and revealed white teeth glistening here and there with gold studs at different corners, then he jerked a signal with his hands, and a gang member unravelled a nylon bag which sustained within it the whitest substance I had seen in all of Nigeria.

“How much you wan buy?”

“How much e be per gram?”

I was new to this dealing thing and wanted to stress the case as long as possible, that’s why I sought to ask the question even though I had no intention of buying.

“150k per gram.”

“Ah,” I said, “Na only 20k dey my hand oh.”

A slap whacked with aggressive force on the back of my skull, almost knocking me off balance.

It cut off my final words, and as my head was ringing, I heard:

“Compose werey, oloriburuku compose.”

At this point, I noticed the flaw in my calculations. I had not thought so far ahead, as to what this search for rice would cause.

When I saw an owl posted up in front of my premises that morning, I had premonished that the day would not go so kindly, but I really wanted to eat long-grain rice.

I tried to explain myself, but the squeezed faces scowling at me did not allow me that option.

So I muttered, “Wetin I fi buy for 20k?”

“Onto wetin now? No be rice you talk say you wan buy? Collect the rice now.” A lackey responded to my query.

“Yes, I know,” at this point my pidgin could not carry on any further, “Yes, I sabi say I ask for long-grain rice, but I did not know that your own is this expensive,” I commented.

“Shey we go sell yama yama give you?”

I peered at his face with a blank stare, unsure of if anyone expected my response.

“Shey we go sell yama yama give you?”

“No now, I’m sure you guys are good businessmen.”

Their big boss frowned at the failure of my weak joke, or maybe something else, before breathing a deep sigh and moving to the back of their den where the walls of an uncompleted building posed.

He motioned me to him after wiping his chair and sitting down.

I did not understand his signal, but after receiving another slap from a lackey cleft with crooked cracked teeth, I picked up my pace to the voice saying:

“Boss dey call you, mugu. God go punish you.”

On reaching the sitting spot of the boss, he asked me to kneel between his legs.

I was an ant, trapped amidst hungry termites, and I could not reason any escape that would appear for my sake, so I knelt down obediently.

“Na Po-Po you be?” He ventured to me.

“No, I be civilian.”

Drawing back and pointing at a lackey, the big boss said with resolve.

“Kforce, bring the smoke wey cost 20k.”

The problem was that the 20k in my pocket was all the money I had to rely on for two weeks, and seeing that I had been provided an opportunity for negotiation, I bargained:

“Bossman, if you would permit me, na only 5k I fi use buy drugs. This 20k na all of my life savings.”

Behind me, I could hear the silent wave of bewilderment, maybe because of what they feared to be misplaced audacity.

The big boss leaned back and rested his elbow on the jagged brick of the walls. A light wind passed his brow, fanning softly his shabby dreaded hair and stirring silver points of annoyance in his eyes.

“Shey you don smoke colo before?”

I answered with an oblivious joy, thinking the matter was getting resolved, “Yes, I don smoke colo with friends. Make I no lie, it was crazy, I almost run mad.”

He laughed at the innocence of my response and linked his palm to mine, but tell me why the next words I heard were:

“Python, lo mu koboko yen wa.” -- Python, go and bring the koboko.

I was raised up like a sheet of cloth, and spread by two gang members holding my legs apart, and another two straddling my hands.

The scars of proof still exist on my back today. If you see me on the road, I can show you. No be small flogging I chop.

They did not take any money from me. They only sent me home, but I must say that with the way I was lashed, I certainly learnt my lesson well.

So next time when you’re in Bodija market, don’t go around asking for long-grain rice.