Maman Laraba came out of her house with a rag in her left hand. She picked the dusty boots by the door and dusted them. The boots belonged to her husband who doubled as a farmer and an Insecticide seller; he had travelled to Zaria in his other pair of shoes, the leather slippers.
She placed the boots close to the door. The house was a small room inside a compound that had a row of five single rooms that faced east. Each room was occupied by a family. The room next to hers was occupied by a man selling ground nut oil, and his wife and four children. It had a small window that was missing its shingle. It was covered by an old half of a Bagco sack that the Sun couldn’t peep through.
She wiped the sweat on her forehead with the back of her right hand and went to the kitchen to pick her large tanda and washed the inside with well water. She wanted to sell Wena and Miyan Geda. She stared at the bungalow opposite the kitchen shed. The lady Copa had not awoken.
She rinsed the biscuit bone she had bought yesterday for fifty naira, and added it to the boiling mixture of her groundnut soup.
‘‘Hanatu, please go and buy thirty naira groundnuts,’’ she said.
‘‘Mama why do you like sending me on errands,’’ she replied. “Why do we have to cook today, it is Karima’s wedding and we were invited.”
‘‘We are not going to the wedding,’’ she said. She didn’t like Hanatu going to family weddings. Hanatu was thirteen and she looked like a darker and slender version of Laraba. Her eyes were as round as a naira coin, but she was good with studies. The teacher at the Government girls’ secondary school always wondered how Hanatu could write and speak English. Maman Laraba often wondered herself. She only knew that Hanatu had the mind of a camera. Maman Laraba had married when she turned seventeen and she lived in a house just like this one, in a neighbourhood that looked like Hayin Dogo. And she used to walk down the sandy road that led from her house; she would pass all the uncoloured houses with identical ‘‘Ba shiga’’ signs written in white chalk, through the back of Mallam Shehu’s Tsangaya and hear the mash of discordant voices reading out loud. She would continue through the narrow shortcut that was filled with the stench of stale urine and gutter. After a few steps, she would pause and try to shake off the sticky goat droppings that stuck to her footwear.
She stirred the Wena that had fluffed out of the tanda. She liked that if the Wena business picks up, she would be able to afford the hundred naira transport fare that could take her to see Laraba and her four grandchildren.
‘‘Why don’t you manage your Nigerian wax.’’ Hanatu said.
‘‘It has a tear at the bottom of the wrapper,’’ she said. ‘‘I know. You can tie the edge that is torn around your waist.” The lady Copa came out of her room and Maman Laraba suddenly got busy with putting the Wena in to her big samira. The lady Copa walked towards them. Her eyes were tottering between drowsiness and wakefulness.
‘‘Hanatu please buy me three eggs and a bag of pure water,’’ she said.
She gave Hanatu two hundred naira, went back to her room and returned with a bundle of clothes. She gave the clothes to Maman Laraba and said, “Please give the clothes to Hanatu.”
Maman Laraba saw a blue lace with silver threads; the blouse was free with a round neck and the wrapper was surely five yards. She traced her hands round its edges.
Hanatu returned from the errand and Maman Laraba gave her the clothes minus the wrapper. Hanatu was so happy she said a series of thanks but the lady Copa had retreated to her room after collecting her eggs and a bag of pure water. Maman Laraba realized that the lady Copa was shy of accepting thanks.
It was like yesterday when the lady Copa gave her six packs of beauty soap and two thousand naira. She borrowed the landlady’s tanda and decided to start her Wena business with five hundred naira. Maman Laraba knew that she gave her the money because she saw her going to the bathroom shed with a bar of canoe soap and the green rubber sponge.
Maman Laraba went to have her bath with Joy beauty soap. The lady Copa was blessed with a good heart; she came in one morning, and took the room attached to the landlady’s bungalow. She was tall, slender with beautiful independent features that melted together when she smiled. Her eyes were beautiful on their own, and so were her nose and mouth. She hardly smiled. Maman Laraba often wondered why but the lady Copa kept her feelings to herself.
She came out of the room with a black veil with blue tiny flowers dotted all over it. She had her make up set in one hand. She gave it to Maman Laraba who was staring at the hole on her hijab. It was the size of a one naira coin but Maman Laraba stared and stared.
Maman Laraba had already rubbed white dusting powder and used kohl to line her eyes. The lady Copa cleaned her face and applied red powder, purple lipstick and black eyeliner. She showed her the face in the mirror.
Maman Laraba’s words of thanks got stuck in her throat. The tired bags under her one naira eyes were covered with brown concealer. Maman Laraba, who always thought her skin was the colour of the brown sand of her village soil, decided that she was the colour of brown chocolate. She only wished she had a nice shoe to wear. The lady Copa exchanged her black flat slippers with her. Luckily, they both wear size 15. She gave her a pair of oval G. L earrings.
‘‘Hanatu please stay behind and make sure you sell the Wena. Give some to your brothers.’’
Maman Laraba attended the biki in Unguwan Dosa. She sat on one of the white rental chairs arranged in straight rows in the middle of her cousins’ compound. She was at the edge of the third row. She could see the canopy and the sofa kept for the bride. The canopy was covered with bright lights.
The bride stepped down from the dais escorted by six of her close friends. They walked like a procession of ducks.
A bag was handed to Maman Laraba. She peered into it to see its contents: a covered paper plate of rice, a small pack of a fruit drink, two fried samosa and two spring rolls. She picked a samosa to eat; she was going to save the food for the kids and maybe offer a samosa to the lady Copa.
The two women who served the food moved towards the side of her chair. She called out to Asabe but the din of yori- yori covered her voice. The volume was lowered and the mother of the bride held court. She was introducing the woman who was going to give a small sermon.
‘‘I thought I heard Maman Laraba’s voice,’’ said Asabe
‘‘She’s not the one; if she had come she will be serving food with us,’’ said Litini.
Maman Laraba held the bag with a tight fist.
‘‘She could have helped us do the dishes. She is the poorest woman in our family,’’ said Asabe.
‘‘Look at Maman Karima,’’ said Asabe. “It’s only because she is fair and beautiful that she got to marry a rich man. Her father used to be her husband’s driver.
‘‘Keep quiet. Don’t allow anyone to hear you. You are just jealous because it didn’t happen to you,’’ said Litini.
‘‘O, to be blessed with fair skin,’’ said Asabe.
Maman Laraba got up from her chair, with her leather bag and walked fast to the door. She bumped into Maman Karima.
‘‘Salma, you came. Please your help is needed. Help with wrapping the gifts. You look fine by the way,” she said and led her away from the festivities to the main house.
At 7 p.m. the groom’s procession had arrived to take the bride. Maman Laraba rushed out to see the procession. She bumped into Karima as she was leaving the house with her flock of friends.
‘‘Don’t spoil my make-up.’’ Then she dropped her hands as she saw her. ‘‘Nagode kwarai. Greet Laraba for me.’’ Maman Laraba was surprised to see that she looked eighteen and she was twenty-six, the same twenty six years with Laraba who looked thirty five.
At 9 p.m. Maman Laraba got to her compound at Hayin Dogo; she walked slowly as if she were carrying stones. She felt the weight of her fifty years on earth. But, she pushed upright. The contents of her knotted wrapper felt warm and welcoming. She held on tighter to the five leather bags. The three thousand naira tied in a knot at the edge of the purple lace felt even warmer.
The next morning she was making Wena at the kitchen shed.
‘‘How was the party,’’ said the lady Copa. She stood in front of the kitchen.
‘‘It was fine, she said as she stirred the Wena she was making ‘‘I was treated like a guest until they recognised me, I wrapped three hundred gifts, then helped to share it, carried three of Karima’s suitcase and swept the house. She got up from her stool and dusted her hands. She entered her room and brought out the veil, earrings and slippers and gave it to the lady Copa.
The lady Copa refused to collect; she said you can keep them. I have twelve pairs of G.L earrings and eight veils and six pairs of slippers.
‘‘I don’t want to keep them’’ said Maman Laraba.
‘‘But you liked them yesterday,’’ said the Lady Copa. She looked confused.
‘‘I thought it would make a difference,’’ she said as she turned to go back to the shed. The knotted edge of the blue lace held a promise.
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