Bola
Standing in the middle of the road was most lucrative but
like all things in life – no pain means no gain. Bola could take the pain. He held his magazines tight and believed the
paper cuts and the thuds of wing mirrors on bone or muscle were worth it. He could even forget the rubbing of his
slippers and the thud of the concrete road vibrating up his heals. He faced the heat and embraced the
desecrating, fume filled air. He
remembered his mother’s words –
‘Even among ants
there are giants’.
He soldiered on down the concrete artery, displaying his
shiny red, black and white books to the moneyed masses on Falomo Bridge, and as
he did every day, decided he would sell the most and be the best. He would leave his brothers hungry and
jealous in their cots that night.
Bola scanned the cars for the ‘ones who bought’. He ignored the aged, crippled motors, still
dragging themselves along the road and avoided the absent windowed, rust
buckets spewing exhaust fumes and full of man boys. Instead, he focused his sights on the
grandiose, black, sleek machines that edged their way through traffic and
carried their booty safely.
Through tinted windows, rolled up tight, he looked for the Mummies
with big hair and fat lips painted red or pointy nailed fingers with gold
dripping off. He watched for glimpses of
Ogas with giant, round watches and sharp tailored suits or the oyibo talking on
a mobile phone. These were his
customers. These were the only people to hand over such mad money for paper.
Bola had fought hard and long for his spot on the bridge. Blood had been spilt for the walk over the
water. He had battle scars and now
everyone knew it was his. He was now the boss. He was the only boy to sell magazines
on the bridge and he was proud. He knew
the 150 naira he made per book was worth the trouble and was a good profit for
a street seller in Lagos.
He prayed to God for heavy traffic and bored
bourgeoisie. He repented his sins and
begged forgiveness when it rained. A good day meant dinner and beer. A bad day meant an empty belly and the long
walk home.
The 20th December was no different from any
other, except that it was getting close to Christmas and people were
desperate. The urge to steal or beg or
borrow was stronger than usual. Though with
no other mouths to feed but his own Bola was not frantic like the other men, but
he knew there would be trouble on the bridge from bold boys attempting
a coup on his hard earned selling space.
6am – the traffic started.
The cars, trucks and bikes began speeding past. Eventually they slowed and filed past Bola
like work horses carting their precious loads.
It was busy so there could be a couple of sells.
He had learnt over the years that he had to
stand out. He knew that a white set of
teeth did not indicate a pure heart but it certainly helped when selling to
strangers. He had to attract his
customers just like the ladies who sell their wares at night do. He had to smile his toothy, white smile, he had
to show his large muscular arms and he had mastered the look of lovable
rogue. Over time, he had learnt that
this look could be the thing which convinced the perfume laden, jewellery
jangling Nigerian Mummy to buy – for maybe she saw her son. Or the Big Man to part with his cash for he
saw a brother or the Oyibo woman to pay over the odds because she saw sex in
his fat lips and strong, broad shoulders.
This was no easy job - more a game with life and death consequences.
Out the corner of his eye he saw a hand wave, maybe four cars away. He burst into a sprint, dodging and manoeuvring
around other cars. He saw the window
scroll down a few inches and was close enough to feel the cool, expensive air
seep out and dissipate.
A boy was already there.
A quick, rough hand exchanged naira with a delicate, female one.
The window zipped back up and the transaction was over in seconds. The boy’s eyes met Bola’s but they didn’t flinch
as expected. The boy just stood there
staring. The silent message was
clear. He wasn’t scared.
He was tall but he was also thick and
burly, athletic even. Bola glanced at
the arms and they were powerful. He
glanced at the boy's feet - trainers with laces.
Then down at his own slippered toes.
He had expected a chase but this guy didn’t move. His mother’s words came to the forefront of
his mind once again –
‘It is survival not bravery that makes a man climb a thorny
tree’.
He mustered his strength, narrowed his eyes and ran
forward. . .
. . . .
