MARKET ORDEAL OF A BACHELOR

   There's always one road block every bachelor faces often; the roadblock of what to eat. It's tasking enough trying to get through the day's work, then you still have to come home and chairman a board meeting on what to eat.

That meeting sometimes take so long into the night that you end up consuming the thought of whatever it is you'd have taken as dinner. But there are exceptional days. Days when kitchen inspiration come from nowhere. You suddenly want to cook that great meal. Hunger inspired recipe that makes you desire all kinds of dishes instantly takes over you. Your appetite skyrockets as adrenaline flows through your vein. But I've noticed once and again, that such days have a way of showing up when the hunger is real and the pocket is lean. The few times this strange light comes on in one's head, prices. probably must have changed in the market.

   So it was on this fateful day, I longed for a simple plate of rice garnished with the complexities of what a chronically famished mouth can ever dream of. Armed with a few Naira note and an outdated price list I was not only ignorant of, but also confident about, I set out for the market. My first stop was a rice retailer's shop. 'Iyami, elo ni kongo iresi? In english; madam, how much is a measure of rice? #600, she replied without blinking. I reiterated my intention to buy rice and not yam. She looked at me without smiles and amplified the figure to the hearing of my seemingly deaf ears once again. I looked down at my price list. What I'd written could start a riot if I open my mouth. I dared not mention to her that I'd come to buy for half the price she gave me, I could go to jail if she begins to shout thief. We all know how market women can be. I tried some other stalls and it was same story. There and then I discovered how heartless those neighbour who love to tell you how much you were duped after inquiring about the prices at which you bought your goods. They are the ones who send bachelors on suicidal trips to the market in the quest to break their false purchase record. 

   Without self motivation, off I was on an alternative trip to the yam stalls. One would have thought the malnourished-looking tubers would favour a buyer. But I was so wrong. The uglier they looked, the higher the price. Is there some kind of costliest-ugly yam contest going on here? If I could describe the atmosphere in my head in that moment, it would be that of Jerry smashing a fry pan against Tom's head after running into his ambush. Musing to myself; it means just two measures of rice will sum up to one tasan, two hundrend Naira (#1200) and five kwashiokor-inflicted tubers would cost one tasan, five hundrend (#1500). Abajooooooooooooo! barely fifty grains of rice now make a plate at most eateries. Stew is served in very miserable quantity. And the pieces of onions cut into sizes three times bigger than the prized meat itself to give the delusion of a great dish from afar. Even 'mai-suya' aren't this generous with onions. After clearing the meal, you don't even know whether to laugh or cry. Satisfaction is now thousands of nautical miles away from your stomach than ever. Any attempt or attempted attempt to make more than one complaint to the waiter can result in explosion of anger. And the bill? Closer to your nose at a higher rate than you can ever imagine. Leaving you in a worse state than you entered.  

   Recently, it took consistent gulping of water to eventually flush down the bolus of 'eba' that had stuck to my throat courtesy of the pathetic quantity of soup served alongside. I dared not call the lady who waited on me, the expression on her face was enough to make one constipate after the meal. But the devil is a liar, I've not come this far to be suffocated by a plate of eba served from the afflictions of the country's economy. These days, I really can't blame those who do not only lick their plate of soup clean, but also rinse it with water and gulp it down before making payment. It's obvious every single Naira count and this isn't the right moment to preach table manners and etiquette. People are really frustrated in this era and no frustration beats that of an hungry man. A gun could be pointing at one's face in solemn response in a split second. Mumsy, I hail o. A woman smart enough to have raised a me taught never to meddle in other people's business. Gunshot and I are very sworn enemies. Not even in a country where doctors need a police report before considering attending to a bullet wound. How does one prove to another frustrated soul whose six months salary still hangs in the air that some idiot opened fire when being taught table manners in a public place?

   On my way out of the market, I walked past some fish sellers tempting me with the sight of their fresh fishes. Borrowing the wise words of Christ, I replied telepathically; man shall not live by fish alone then casted the images of their fishes out of my mind. You see, I've learnt to comport myself when dealing with fish sellers from my early years; especially the ones whose stalls are simply benches and umbrellas, trying to make sales under the heat of the scorching sun. Their threshold isn't far from the red line when bargain starts. Brother, I repeat; if you must buy fish, please negotiate with discretion. You could be talking to a time bomb.

I'd once followed an older female neighbour to the market during my pre-puberty years. The kind we called 'Anti' in those young days. She had stopped to buy fish from one of the sellers who was now well tanned from the heat of the midday sun at the entrance to the market. Her umbrella wasn't of much help as she sweated profusely. I can't remember the price my guide offered to buy that single fish , but the woman's instant reaction indicated it was either ridiculous, painful, or way too heartbreaking. Before I could blink my eyes, 'Shawa', 'Kote', 'Panla' or whatever it was had made its way to my Anti's face in a stunning hot slap. Motion paused around us and people stopped to watch the drama that had ensued. That was when I made the biggest mistake of my life by laughing out loud. Ayakataaaaaa! It only took me few seconds to realize that bile isn't far from the tongue and saliva actually has a bitter taste when landed a dirty slap in public. 'Anti' made sure I got an overdose of her own merciless prescription. I was the perfect victim for the aggression transfer. Right act, right place, right time, right consolation prize. I held on to my cheek as I digested the testimonial sting and refused talking to her for the rest of the shopping.

   Remembering the words of Kenny Everett, he said; the best way to keep milk from turning sour is to leave it in the cow. So I respected myself, smiled at the women, bought some red beans and went home to silence my wild appetite with cold water and the blood of Jesus. Obviously retreating with that price list so I can live to shop another day.