Writing

I haven't been blogging but have been writing.  I aim to post excerpts of stories and ideas.  Hopefully I get some feedback.  I was set a task at the writer's group I attend once per month.  I had to write from the perspective of a street seller in Lagos.  This is some of what I wrote.

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 20^th 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.   .  .  .  .  .  .