Binding Scars

by Maya Rossi

  Market women stood in front of their stalls laughing or arguing about space.

  “... how do you define a market?”

  I dragged my attention to I.J. “What do you mean by define?”

  She narrowed her eyes, then pointed at a little girl playing on the ground. “If that girl asks you what a market is, how will you say it?”

  “Where people come and buy and sell things?”

  “Yes.” She raised her arms in triumph. “This is a market. It doesn’t matter how small the stalls or the revenue generated.”

  I enjoyed listening to I.J talk. She explained things so I could understand. Yet I had repaid her by throwing Ogba in her face. She pointed out things, and I rushed to obey, feeling like myself for the first time. I got the mat from a neighbor to the right and arranged the yams. There were some eggs, fruits, and vegetables.

  But mostly yams.

  “He also sells akpu, chicken during festive periods and plantains. Those are his bestsellers.” She laughed again. “You don’t know what I’m talking about, do you?” At my shake of head, she looked like a child whose toy was taken away.

  “What happens when it rains?”

  “You’ll quickly gather the yams and run into Ma Ebube’s shop.”

  “We need a stall, with a roof,” I added.

  “Does that mean you’re staying?” I.J asked.

  I lowered my head, shifting the position of a yam that was perfectly placed. “I don’t know. I’m just taking things as it comes.”

  An unbearable air of sadness settled on her then. “A day at a time, I understand.”

  “What do you sell?”

  She ducked her head. It was so unexpected my mouth dropped.

  Now I needed to know. “What? Manure? Fowl shit?”

  “No!”

  I thought hard. “Charcoal?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with charcoal. But no.”

  “Firewood?”

  She rolled her eyes. “No. In fact, I’ve been trying to get Merrick to sell those. Most people here cook with firewood. It’s cheaper. So it’s a bestseller.”

  “Then why did you look embarrassed?”

  “I sell nothing,” she mumbled.

  It took a second for the meaning of her words to penetrate. “You sell nothing, but you must come here every day. Or most days, since most of these women know you.”

  “I help when Merrick has a big day at the farm.” She shrugged.

  That was another thing I wanted to ask about. I shoved it till later. “So you just came here to help me, thanks,” I intoned.

  “My husband was an asshole.” Her eyes twinkled with devilment. She was such a joyful woman. “In Yoruba language, he was an ole buruku.”

  “He stole from you?”

  “I wish that was all he did.”

  “What did he do?” I asked sharply. “I’m sorry--”

  “No, most people know my story.” She breathed deep. “I was a writer, I don’t know if I was any good but people liked my books. I made a lot of money. I was single. I had so much money. What to do with it? I wanted something tangible, something my children could have. I bought land. My mom, my parents, begged me not to. She said men hate women who owns things--”

  “That’s true,” I said without thinking.

  “How do you know?”

  “My Madam says that all the time.”

  She shrugged again. But her eyes shone with unshed tears. “Anyway, I believed mom was wrong, that belief was so olden days, I told her. Anyway,” her voice broke, “anyway--”

  “How much are your yams?”

  Beneath my breast, my heart jumped. I had been so focused on the story. Her life story. I smiled at the woman. She had fair, beautiful skin like my Madam. With her gele and wrapper, I would have mistaken her for Madam.

  “Hi, good afternoon ma.”

  “Good afternoon.”

  “How is the family, ma?”

  She eyed me with suspicion. “Fine.”

  “What kind of yam do you want?” I smiled to put her at ease.

  “What kind?” she glanced at I.J in confusion.

  “See?” I held up a yam. “If I was buying I will get this one for cooking,” I grabbed another, “this one? Maybe for pounded yam.”

  The woman nodded. She ended up buying twenty, half for pounding and the other half for cooking. I sold each for three hundred. Six thousand.

  “It’s too cheap,” I said absently.

  “Wow, you’re good at that,” I.J breathed.

  I wasn’t listening. The woman had a girl of about fourteen come for the yams. A maid. I rushed to help, but she held me back.

  “Seyi can handle it. When will you have yams again?”

  “Next market day,” I.J replied, “that’s next week.”

  The girl, Seyi, had raised welts on her arms and the back of her legs. I.J and the woman continued speaking while I watched the girl. She was so weak she could barely lift a yam. Somehow she managed. She had to.

  On her last trip, one yam slipped from her hands and fell. It broke in half. Each half rolling all over the place. I held my breath and turned to see the Madam’s reaction. She ran to the car and returned with a long fat cane. Seyi went to her knees, begging.

  Ma Ebube and some market women ran out to beg. The woman finally relented and allowed Seyi pick up the yams. But I knew Seyi would get the beating of her life at home. I put the money in our purse and rearranged the remaining yams.

  “Is that how it is for you?” I.J asked.

  I frowned. “What? Seyi? No!” I straightened. “You were telling me about your ole buruku husband.”

  But the atmosphere had been ruined by Seyi and her Madam. Plus, I.J didn’t look like she believed me.

  “Anyway, I bought the land, married a great guy. When the guy heard about my properties, he changed. Started hitting me, wanted to control me and the finances. Wanted me to sell the land. The beating led to a miscarriage, and I left. My son Tom came with me. Bring your list, let’s shop.”

  The story came out all wrong. Without the emotions of before, it almost meant nothing. But I was happy I.J was fine now. She didn’t speak again. Did she want me to confide in her about Madam? There was nothing to confide about. And how could I say anything when she was so close to Merrick?

  “How much did he give you?” I asked after browsing through some stalls.

  I.J looked confused. “How much did he give you?”

  Oh. “I thought he would give you the money.”

  “Why would he do that? You’re the one going shopping.”

  Her eyebrows flew high. “Let me guess, your Madam wouldn’t have given you the money.” She folded her arms. “He wants you to use the money from the yams.”

  “No! I can’t.”

  I.J sighed, glanced at her watch. It was cheap, old and rusty. Did her husband take all her properties?

  “Come on, decide. I need to get home soon.”

  I bought some panties, bras and a t-shirt. Then I bought tissues. Silently, I counted the remaining money. I had already spent two thousand.

  “Buy what you need, Merrick won’t mind.”

  “No, no, no.”

  I bought things for soup, tomatoes and other ingredients and we returned to the stall. I.J observed silently as I took out a note and pen. I needed to make an account of every penny spent. When it was all accounted for, I sat on the edge of my seat, praying Merrick wouldn’t mind I spent so much.

  I sold more yams. All the vegetables and some fruits. I breathed easier, but there was still that sick feeling in my stomach. What if Merrick didn't approve of the money I spent?

  Around dusk, an army of motorcycles descended on the market like a swarm of bees. The market women scattered in confusion. Ma Ebube fled her shop. I.J’s reaction was the worst. She just burst into tears, shivering and shuddering on the spot.

  I dragged her to the back of Ma Ebube’s stall before running back to the yams. Discarded carelessly, I noticed a long woo
den plank with two nails at the end. On impulse, I picked it up and ran. When I got there, a boy around my age was running a hand over one yam.

  “That’s three hundred.”

  His mouth dropped open. He would have been handsome were it not for the air of menace and violence around him. He grinned. Like most of the people in these parts, his teeth were healthy and very white. Between the burning cigarette in his left hand and the knives stuck to the waistband of his trousers, he looked very dangerous.

  He hefted the yam again. “Man, this yam is something.”

  “And it’s three hundred,” I repeated.

  He gaped at me. “You’re serious?”

  “I am.”

  “No,” he laughed, “you’re new. That’s what you are. The rule is to disappear when you hear our bikes. Or we kill you.” He hefted the yam.

  “How many are you buying?” I kept the plank close, used it to adjust the yams.

  The boy laughed harder. He twisted his mouth in a sneer and snapped out one knife attached to his belt. All around me, the market had gone silent. With the women out of their stalls, the boys wrecked havoc, packing out goods and taking out monies.

  When I showed no fear, he turned around. “Hey, come and see this olosho. She thinks I’m here to buy yam.”

  The other guy was taller and bigger and older. He dragged out some goods—biscuits and stomped on it, destroying it needlessly. The waste made me grip the plank harder. No way would they mess with my yams.

  He braced the knife against my nose. When I jumped back, he laughed. I swung the plank in an arc, slamming the side with the nail against his head. He dropped like a stone to the ground. The guy he spoke to earlier came running.

  With a snarl, he charged me. I put my hand up instinctively and shouted in pain when his knife sliced up my arm.

  Then someone screamed. “Security!”

  Before I would brace myself, they jumped on their bikes and zoomed off. The market women started coming out of their hiding places. They cried and wailed over their ruined goods and marveled that I stood my ground.

  The cut on my arm was about a palm length, it gushed blood profusely. I.J was useless. Tears flowed unchecked down her face while she whimpered like a broken animal. It took Ma Ebube and three other women to drag her from the hiding place. They helped me call Merrick.

  Before he arrived, the women took over, cleaning my wound and packing the unsold goods into Ma Ebube’s stall. They rallied around me, cooing, crooning and petting. I was used to existing in the shadows-- unseen, silent. I couldn’t even refuse because they hushed me each time.

  Merrick arrived twenty minutes later, covered in dust and grime from head to toe. The shirt he was wearing was nothing more than a rag, torn in five different places. Formerly a white shirt, it was brown, soaked through with sweat and dirt. That was when I realized he bathed and changed before coming home.

  The women rushed him. They spoke in Yoruba, pointing at me each time. With every narration, Merrick stiffened until became a living steel pole. He took one look at my arm and cursed loudly.

  “When did you get your bike?” I asked as he helped me into the back seat.

  “A friend-- lean against me,” he clipped out. “We have a retired nurse high up close to the bus stop-- what were you thinking--”

  “Please, please, stop shouting.”

  My arm throbbed like a million soldier ants were gathered around the wound, pulling and chewing. Merrick drove carefully. But the roads were so bad and each time we hit a gallop or pothole, I gasped as the pain arched up my arm.

  After about five minutes, we pulled into a storefront. Merrick curled an arm under my legs and lifted me easily. I beat ineffectually at his shoulders.

  “Stop, I hurt my arm, not my leg.”

  But Merrick wasn’t listening. When we entered the shop, I was slammed by the smell of fish. I gave Merrick a questioning look. This close, he reeked.

  “Yeah, she sells crayfish now. But she’s what we’ve got.”

  A woman bustled out, short, fat and round. She smelled, reeked of crayfish. It was not unpleasant, but it was so strong. She took one look at my face and laughed out loud.

  “Yes, I sell crayfish. The best, you better come and patronize me after this.”

  It was impossible not to like her. She wasn’t beautiful like Madam, but her smile, her warmth was angelic. She bounced around like a ball. She ordered Merrick around.

  “Put her here.”

  “Hold out her arm.”

  “You this boy, you don’t understand English?”

  “Maybe I should speak Yoruba.”

  And when she unfurled the length of wrapper soaked with blood, one of the market women had wrapped around the wound, Merrick went off.

  “What the hell were you thinking?” He paced, helped nurse, paced again. “When a thief asks for your money or phone, you give them. Don’t ask--”

  “Would you have believed me?”

  Merrick stopped. Nurse handed him a bottle to hold. “What are you talking about?”

  I gritted my teeth against the sharp bite of pain when she poured water over the wound to wash off the blood. “If when you returned, and I said, ‘I sold nine thousand but the thieves came and I lost it,’ would you have believed me?”

  Merrick and Nurse exchanged a look. He took my hand. “With that wound, who wouldn’t believe you?”

  I raised my chin. “And without the wound?” I laughed at his obvious guilt. “Exactly. You don’t know how many maids have lost the trust of their Madams because of such a--”

  “You’re that kind of maid?” Nurse asked.

  Merrick looked confused. “What kind?”

  Nurse nodded. “I was too. Now, be quiet.”

  After using water, she poured something on the wound that nearly made me pass out. But it only grew worse when she sewed it up. I cried like a baby.

  “Christ, can’t you give her something so it doesn’t hurt?” Merrick asked tautly, eyes dark with worry.

  She glared at him. “No, I don’t have anything. Be quiet.”

  By the time she was done, Merrick’s already wet shirt was soaked with my tears. I inhaled the overpowering smell of sweat and earth that clung to him. His arms tightened around me while he continued to run soothing circles over my back.

  She gave Merrick some drugs for me. Looking embarrassed, Merrick patted his pockets. “I’m sorry ma, I’m just coming straight from the farm and--”

  “Here, I still have the money for today.” I shifted my hips to pull out the money. “That’s nine thousand three hundred and fifty. But I think I overspent. Please, please, forgive me. I wrote everything down, you--”

  “Stop,” Merrick ordered gently. “You didn’t even buy anything. How did you sell this much?”

  “I bought things for stew and soup and--”

  “Ada!”

  I stopped. We stared at each other until I dropped my gaze. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It won’t--”

  “Christ. You have nothing to be sorry for.”

  “So, you won’t tell Madam?” I asked the ground.

  “Tell Ma--Christ. Why will I tell her anything?” He exhaled harshly. “That’s what you’ve been thinking?” His disappointment had a ring of puzzlement. “That I call Mom every day to report… you?”

  With another curse, he counted out money to nurse and carried me out again. When we got home, I.J was waiting. They were other women, youths and children with her. People I had never even met. They brought food and provisions. As Merrick carried me inside, they flitted about trying to help.

  I.J rushed forward, rambling. “I’m sorry--”

  Merrick held up a hand. “Stop, can you give us some space? Please?”

  He placed me on the bed and went outside. His voice rang out, warm with gratitude and apologies. After some time, everywhere grew quiet, and the gate banged shut.

  I listened to him lock the gate. The pain in my arm was intense, but I struggled to get up. Madam Gold
would flip if she saw me now. I.J brought my bags from the market. I set about arranging things inside the kitchen cupboard. I ran a finger down the side of the cupboard and it came away stained. It needed scrubbing.