The Wooden Bicycle and Other Stories

2. Fateful Ride

7 The Wooden Bicycle and Other Stories 2 Fateful Ride M arket day was one day we looked forward to with baited breath. And once it came, it was another eight days before the next one. This was because like in most villages in the region, our local market was held on the weekly ‘country Sunday’, or to put it in proper English, the weekly public holiday. This day fell once in eight days and not seven days because there are eight days in the village week. Since there are only seven in the western culture, it goes without saying that the village days on which western days fell kept changing. For instance our own public holiday was Yelighi. If you work it out you will find that if that day fell on a Sunday in one week for example, the following week it will fall on Monday, and then Tuesday, and Wednesday respectively. The market day on which the incident I am about to recount fell was a Tuesday. On that day I was one of those who left the school compound as soon as we were dismissed. It was a two-mile walk from our school to the market, yet it seemed to me that on market days I covered that in only ten minutes. So great was my desire to get to the market. You will understand why in a short while. I was told my mother was out in the market. Once I got to the market, I hurried to the hut which my mother and some other women used as their base. So I promptly I left to look for her. I found her buying palm oil from Pa John, the Mentighi man who always surprised me 8 Tikum Mbah Azonga with his mastery of our language, Mbelighi. Although I knew many Mentighi people who spoke other languages, Pa John was the only one I knew with such a great mastery of Mbelighi. He was a dirty old man who tied his tin of oil on his old bicycle, then rode and pushed it all the way up to Alah Mbelighi, as the village was uphill. “Pa John, why is your oil so expensive this week?” my mother was asking. “It’s the supply mammy, it’s the supply. We didn’t get much oil this week. I don’t know why suppliers didn’t smash more of it.” “But Pa John, you always say that. You are from Mentighi where this oil is made. So how can you start telling me about supply?” My mother asked, yet looking quite pleased after dipping her finger in the large basin of oil that lay on the ground between her and Pa John, to see if it was good oil. “No, no! That’s not the point. You know I don’t produce oil. I only buy and sell it. Do you think an old man like me can still have the strength to step on boiled palm kernels in order to crush them and produce oil? You know I can’t do that any more. However, you know I always sell good oil.” “Yes, I know that. I have just tasted today’s one. Alright, I’ll take a bottle.” It was only then my mother noticed I was standing next to her. “Ah see who we have here! When did you come, son?” “I’ve just arrived, mother… and I’m hungry.” I said. “Have you seen your father?” “No, I haven’t.” “You mean you haven’t been to his njangis hut?” “No, mother.” “Then go and see him.” As I turned to go, she stopped me. “Take this,” she said, searching in her purse as she dug into coins and turned them around. She gave me 50 francs. I knew that as usual, I would buy takwa and kuru kuru, both of which were Hausa specialities. But first, I had to go 9 The Wooden Bicycle and Other Stories and se my father. As soon as I entered their njangis hut, he offered me a handshake and asked: “Have you returned from school?” “Yes, Papa.” I said taking my usual standing position next to him. I knew I looked like him. So in order to excite people’s curiosity, I made sure the two identical faces were next to each other. It worked because just then a man whom I hadn...