A Salesman in Babel
Mustapha had peeped from a distance to be sure that Maduka was there. Moments later, he arrived with a policeman firmly holding to a baton popularly called “talk true” in Nigerian pidgin. The officer made straight for Maduka’s waist. He grabbed Maduka by his waist and shook him violently. Both stood facing each other eyeball to eyeball. Maduka parted his lips but words were too scared to proceed. He managed to look at the three days old chicks he had come to sale and took a second look at his tormentor. From a distance, traders froze and watched the scene silently. There was calm within as the policeman proceeded with his interrogation.
“Maa sunan ka?” he thundered.
He looked at the light-skinned officer with an annoying speechlessness. His uniform has seen too much sunlight and was fast changing from black to ash-black. Soon he remembered the crash course he had. In a brief language class, Uncle Tom had lectured Maduka on what to say anytime a Hausa prospective buyer approached the cage.
“…just say baa Hausa and the person will revert to pidgin” Uncle Tom stated assuredly. It had worked for him perfectly well as he proceed with the business of the day; to market all the chicks in Uncle Tom’s poultry since bird flu was in town and government inspection officers were moving from farm to farm slaughtering birds and paying a paltry sum as compensation.
Maduka, an eastern college student on summer holiday, took pity on Uncle Tom’s inevitable losses. He was determined and took to marketing the fast-deteriorating chicks. Each time he sighted a prospective buyer, he would shake the cage and all the ailing chicks would respond positively to the efficacy of the capsules they had taken. In harmony, they moved briskly within and around the cage“Na how muz I dey sellam por agric poul? to do his bidding.
It was under this precarious condition that he encountered Mustapha.
Naa wa nne? Mustapha inquired casually.
“Ba Hausa” was Maduka’s quick response.
Mustapha managed to ask.
“Thirty Naira for one.”
Mustapha did not believe his ears.
“One por thirty-nera?” He asked in amazement and Maduka shook his head as he bent down to ginger the chicks. To Mustapha’s ignorance, the price had an unwritten ‘caveat emptor’ tag on the cage.
“Nera telantin kwo?” he asked again to be sure that he heard well. Maduka repeated his only known Hausa words “ba Hausa” to Mustapha and assured him that the chicks went for just thirty Naira each. Mustapha was enraptured and with enduring enthusiasm, he paid for twenty chicks and went home dance-walking. His delight was in prospect to the gains in the making. Christmas was three and half months away and he hoped to return them to the same market and smile home the way he was doing then. What amazed him was that the price of the chicks dropped by forty par cents. His joy was that the price of twelve gave him eight more. He had learned from BBC Hausa that the government was encouraging people to go into poultry business and concluded that he was yielding to the patriotic request.
By daybreak, Mustapha was mesmerized by the lifeless bodies of eight chicks. He cursed the tradesman endlessly and consoled himself with the fact that the actual value for the money he had paid was intact. The following day, four followed and on the third day his cage was empty! He was reluctant to dispose of them.
‘I shall confront that dan-iska with them and collect my money the next market day’ he had reasoned. They were later disposed of out of sheer necessity. It was then that it dawned on him that the discount he gloried in was on purpose.
He had turned up early on the following market day doubting the possibility of Maduka ever showing up. He had waited for eternity and suddenly he sighted the ‘devil’ from afar. He smiled displaying his kola nut-stained teeth.
“Dan kusua…wana yamiri kparawo far!” he cursed and blew his arm into the air. As he staggered angrily, the northern harmattan breeze descended ferociously on his gellabia. He beat down the hem of his garment as if the breeze was acting in collaboration with Maduka.
A Police officer had promised Mustapha that the tradesman will vomit the money as he trampled on litters of polythene bags with his overused boot.
Upon arriving at his sales point, Mustapha pointed at Maduka with disdain.
“Mee suna ka?” the policeman asked impatiently. He grabbed Maduka by the waist, lifted him with great effort making him lose balance. Maduka was thrown into a dilemma. He quickly remembered what Uncle Tom taught him and instead of “baa Hausa” he erred and said; “Baa Sunna!” with red bulging eyes. His voice carried familiar impunity which the officer associated with his fellow Igbo brothers in the market. On that premise, he concluded that he was headstrong and raised the baton in his hand repeating his question for the last time.
“Maa suna?”
This time he shook Maduka violently to the delight of Mustapha. Maduka was equally determined to prove that he was angrier. So, he shouted back at the policeman; “Ba suna!” He did not see it coming and did not prepare for defense. The baton landed on his head heavily with a thud.
“Chinekeee! Na watin I do for you?” Maduka wailed bitterly. His ferocious outcry of “Chineke!” attracted crayfish sellers and others within who identified with the exclamation. Those who understood Hausa took the role of mediators. Mustapha spoke entirely in Hausa. His eyes were red with fire of complete disgust. Maduka did not recognize Mustapha anymore neither did he understand what he said in Hausa Language. When the mediators turned to Maduka for his side of the story, he was still mesmerized and yet to come to terms with the reason for the maltreatment.
“Na how e happen?” the chief mediator asked.
Maduka slapped his two palms together to demonstrate his confusion.
“Ba suna…” he then raised his hand to his head “…kpo!”
“Baa suna…kpo!” He told them in Igbo that he did not do anything.
The traders who understood Mustapha’s complaint and Maduka’s total lack of comprehension burst into hilarious gesticulations and wide laughs.
It was after a conscious interpretation that Maduka smiled at Mustapha for the first time. He remembered the story of the Tower of Babel and joined the others in the fun.
“God is immirimious,” he said repeating the words of his village pastor. That was how “Ba suna…kpo!” became a joke among Igbo traders.
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