A memoir

One could begin with petrichor whose smell excluded the noise of statues erected at school of Vocational and Technical Education, or one might begin from the other side of a gangan drum as it face a feeling with sweet reminiscence flowing into a pen I grip. Oga Muibi as he was well known and Baba Sola, our practical supervisors would set us into a bush and they would ordered us to eat them all. After a tideous land preparation, they would gave us spoonful of seeds and after three to four weeks of serious watering, we met smile on succulent Tete leaves. After a petty remittance, I remember my visit to Mama kunu’s stall at Sped market.

In such cases, I went with Alfa Ibrahim, a gifted friend of mine, only on a rare day we have the taste different. But occasionally after we have been welcomed by Mama kunu. He would ordered mama by saying “Mama eba mi bo epa s’inu kunu tutu” “Mama help me peel groundnuts and put them inside a cold kunu.” At the end of the day he spent nothing much than thirty naira.

Kunu garnish with groundnut really taste different. It bound us with relief that beyond what the normal one could. Such relief is what one could seek for when nature mesmerized someone with depression. Of course, such relief is needed it in its plethora.

Another person might carry the crumb to Iya oni anamo (boiled and fried potato seller) Shop just twenty footsteps on a proper stretch from Mama kunu’s stall, such a person is my anonymous friend. He is altruistic and mostly accompanied by his crew. Ocassionally after a regale, they sat in front of Iya oni anamo’s shop, they sat on a bench and began a display that looked like that of an alcohol addicted gambler whose stake earn a merry return. Such is him and his crew.
They drummed anything capable of shrilling. They were well known and when such moment arises, the sellers around them paid them emolument like Agbe n’oba, “The farmers are the king”, while some added petrol of compliment to keep their engines lively, some marred them with words that only an incomplete man will wave away, regardless they care not. They sang and composed Gospel songs and in the latter, they wounded the air of the small market with Aluta songs.

I knew some of my classmates who took the gain they acquired from their vegetables to Banke Eleba, an eatery, though the Banke Eleba confused me at first sight. I thought it was a hotel the way it was built but later a signboard erected on one side in front of it revealed what it was meant for. On the signboard, welcome to banke Eleba and other stories was boldly inscribed.

To be continued…

Yesterday has gone, but left behind the memory one wish never stale.

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