ORION'S BELT III

Hey guys, here's Instalment three, Enjoy and Critique!

***********************************************
“There is a noble manner of being poor, and who does not know it will never be rich - Seneca”
Lagos, Nigeria January 2007.
Shouts of “Pure water tutu re” rang out distinctly amidst a mélange of the cries of other hawkers peddling their goods and roused me from my slumber. “Pure water pure water” the voice called again: it was a shrill voice, unmistakably feminine, fragile and delicate, like earthenware in a kiln and it sounded like it might break if it went a chord higher.
I found her in the crowd and watched, observing, she wore a plain dress with a flowery pattern, she looked to be about fifteen, and she had rolled her wrapper into a circle and placed it on her head as a cushion for the sweating bowl that contained nylon sachets of water nestled against blocks of ice. She looked back abruptly and caught me staring, then she winked and lifted the bowl in question, I shook my head and smiled back, I was in Lagos.
“Ah, you’re awake” Uncle Festus said slapping my thigh, “Are you hungry?” he asked and I nodded. He popped his head out of the bus window and yelled “Gala Gala”, a young man wearing a rumpled greased-stained singlet ran up to him and lifted a carton bearing the Gala logo with a cow outlined on its sides to the window. Uncle Festus picked two sausage rolls and cautiously inspected them for some malady or defect and then finally settled on one. He handed the man some money and as he turned to go Uncle Festus yelled as if he had already left the commerce window “Abeg help me call the Fanyogo man”, “yessir” the man answered and disappeared into the throng of people. The Fanyogo man appeared seconds later “Which one you want Sir? I get cho-ko-late, vanilla, and straw-berry” he asked, breathlessly running up to our bus that was now moving from the Yaba market traffic. “Amadi?” he asked “Chocolate” I replied. The man, still running vigorously, dipped his hand into the improvised cooler: rectangular cut carton with thick nylon swathed over it, filled with ice and stacked with packaged yogurts and frozen flavored ice, and handed Uncle Festus the yogurt. He dove for the paper floating to the ground and barely caught it as Uncle Festus threw the money out of the window and the bus launched into full speed.
I woke up to the sound of clanging bells and Uncle Festus chanting off key in a sing-song manner “Holy Michael, Holy Gabriel, Ho-lee Ho-lee” he cried. I rolled over on my mattress and onto the floor; my mattress was a thin flattened piece of foam not quite covered with its threadbare cloth and almost disappearing into the floor it sat on. The air smelled of my sweat, sewer debris, and the faint hint of fried fish wafted in through the window. Last night had been exhausting, I had met Aunty Mary - Uncle Festus’ wife, an animated plump woman who hugged me and pressed my head to her bosom cooing and aahing over how much I had grown. We finally sat down to a dinner of boiled black-eyed beans in a spicy palm oil stew on plastic chairs in the parlor, after Aunty Mary had tired of making observations about the shape of my ears, and how my nose was remarkably like Adaku’s and then Uncle Festus commenced his too long talk about his “job” and its entailments.
He had announced to me proudly that he was a prophet and that I would be joining him as an apprentice in his prophet business to earn my stay, since Adaku had told him I possessed the powers to augur the future. I immediately informed him that I possessed no such powers and that I had only had one very vivid dream where I saw my only friend die and days later he was gone. Uncle Festus had laughed and said it did not matter whether I possessed powers or not, once word got out that I had foretold Uzo’s death I would become a powerful prophet, and it would help if I was able to predict one or two more events correctly. Curious and perplexed, I had asked Uncle Festus “What, If I don’t dream anything?” in response he shook his head from side to side with a grin as wide as his face would allow and answered “You formulate!”. “Formulate?” I asked, “Ah, village boy...I forget, it means you make up a quack vision, anything you like!” Uncle Festus said, smiling triumphantly like he had just discovered the cure for AIDS. “Oh? Isn’t that criminal?” I asked my eyes as wide as Aunty Mary’s China saucers. The slap to the back of head came first and then Uncle Festus’ acerbity “Stupid boy! Are you calling me a common criminal in my own house?” I shook my head solemnly and fixed my eyes on my almost empty plate, “We shall change your name to Solomon, it is more Christian” Uncle Festus declared as his chair scraped the cement floor and he got up to leave.
I got up from my mattress, stretching and yawning, I smoothed my boxers that had ridden up in my sleep and then made my way to the communal bathroom outside, my towel slung across my neck. I entered into the tiny bathroom carefully twisting my body and the bucket of water to avoid rubbing my arms on the slimy algae covered cement walls. Fifteen minutes later I was out, my towel wrapped around my waist, my bucket and soap dish in hand, and then I saw her. She had a deep blue towel tied across her breasts with mounds of tan chocolate flesh peeking out and her towel skimmed her knees. She looked my naked torso over and winked again like she had done yesterday, I smiled “let me” I said, reaching for her bucket of water, she placed the bucket on the ground “Amaka” she said, her eyes smiling, “Amadi” I replied, lifting her bucket.
Despite my bath seconds ago, I now smelled like incense and woodsy smoke, I hurriedly donned the blood red garb of muslin and secured the free flowing garment with a white sash around my waist. “Hurry!” Uncle Festus snorted impatiently as I slid my feet into the worn leather sandals he had given me, “Customers will soon be arriving” he said and plopped a huge white chef-like hat onto my head, adjusting it till it was in place, looking me over he sighed satisfactorily “Finally! Oya follow my lead” he said as he threw upon the door to his “holy” room. Outside the door, two women sat on a raffia mat that was the waiting area, one had a baby tucked in the crook of her arm and the other held a small basket of ugwu leaves. “Prophet Festus” they bowed in greeting, hands clasped together as if in prayer Uncle Festus shut his eyes for a brief second and reopened them “My Children, Jah’s peace” he said placing his fore and middle fingers reverently on his lips and extending it back to them. “What brings you?” he asked as he rolled up his muslin and balanced his weight on his high stool, “It is her husband” the woman with the vegetables replied pointing to her friend who was rocking the sleeping child. “Let her speak!” Uncle Festus thundered. “One small girl is trying to steal him from me” she said sniffling and wiping her eyes with the edge of her wrapper. “J-ah! Jah! Jehovah!” Uncle Festus shrieked, he had gotten up abruptly from his stool and was now making circuitous rotations on the mat, his garment like a kite buoyed by the wind. He began a frenzied dance, his head swaying from side to side, the jigada beads on his ankles shaking furiously, and his arms resting on his hips as his buttocks moved to a rhythm only he could hear. He made an elaborate spin and plunked unto his high stool, “Your gift to Jah” he asked extending his hands to the woman with the vegetables, She handed him the leaves her head bowed in respect. “Jah! Angel Mikeluu! Angel Gabereli” he cried “You have done it” he said lifting the basket up to the heavens in one swift motion and handing it to me. “It is done, my child” Uncle Festus said to the woman carrying the baby and “This is what you will do” he began.
Uncle Festus informed the woman that Jah’s solution to her problem was to sleep naked in her husband’s room for three nights in a row; Jah had said that she was to perfume herself and everywhere that had hair on her body and present herself to her husband at ten o’ clock every night, and failure to adhere to these instructions would result in calamitous and disastrous consequences. The woman and her friend had nodded gravely and then they thanked Uncle Festus profusely as they put a wad of hundred naira notes in a bowl Uncle Festus placed in front of them. As they got up to leave, the woman’s arm brushed mine and all of a sudden I was plunged into a circling tornado of unending darkness and then I was in front of a house that had a large framed picture of a young woman propped up on a table with artificial flowers surrounding the frame and white candles burning on both sides of the table. There were women dressed in mourning clothes, wailing and shouting, “Chinwe o!” one cried and another woman sitting stiffly on a chair laughed bitterly “Cruel death, and she was so young”.
“Ama…Solomon” I heard Uncle Festus call, water was being sprinkled on my face and I was lying on the mat “I’m awake” I said cleaning my face with the back of my hand, the women were peering at me, unsure about what to make of the situation. “Who is Chinwe?” I asked the woman with the baby as I sat up, her eyes grew wide with amazement or fear, and I could not tell which one. “My husband’s mistress” she finally answered. “How did you…” she stuttered “I didn’t…” she began again, I waved away her questions “Chinwe is going to die” I said looking at the woman. She looked bewildered, and then her expression changed into a pained smile, “Thank you Prophet Solomon” she said bowing her head.