Dr Fixit (221 - 230)

 221

'hekay ehkpo'. I'd noticed that if Ma Moneyit 

was telling tales, she'd end up buying on credit.

If she had the cash with her, the bumble bee

wasn't half as noisy and busy

like her. 'Ah, Ahfeah ma. Sell me things quickly.

My cool man friend has come. I need to hurry.

I want to cook him a super dish

before he travels back to the creek to fish.

Sell me this, sell me that.' Where slow

Big Mama appeared, Ma Moneyit would throw

222

herself into helping in some of the tasks.

One time, she'd talk of a guy who worked on rail tracks;

the next, it could be an oil merchant, the fishmonger 

or she'd even give subtle details of a mugger.

The war had taken so many lives

and many were males who had wives.

The women had returned with their progeny 

and were now sole breadwinners. Many a family 

was fended for by women who turned prostitutes

and Ma Moneyit was one of them. The magnitude 

223

of the crises was huge. Big Mama

had walked round the table which had cucumber,

garri, crayfish, salt and sundry commodities

in basins - big and small - placed on it. The oddities 

were snuff and 'ahkaikai', the gin produced

in Antburg which was so potent it reduced

the senses of those who loved it that a big man

would creep and cry like a baby so the woman

because of shame used them covertly 

as her counterpart drank and dirtied his nose overtly.

224

Finished measuring out the oil, grandma

had returned to her seat. Then there was a holler 

at me: 'You're listening to old people's chat.

Scram!' I flew across the street and joined some brats

kicking football in their front yard. I stood 

where I could watch the ball and have a look quite good 

across at the kiosk and the antics

of every customer. Ma Moneyit did her theatrics.

She'd moved inside the kiosk and my grandmother 

had passed her a shot of the drink. She did utter

225

an excuse for not having the money to pay

right then and that she'd pay soon. In a way, 

grandma had no issues giving credit to customers

long as they wouldn't wait for her

to keep scratching their doors before they would 

remember they owed her. Ma Moneyit was good 

at paying on time. She gulped the drink,

resurfaced, picked her oil and jinked 

past the artisans and through the hedge 

into the next compound. The soundbox belched 

226

great tunes after tunes. A kid here or there danced

to the rhythmic beats. At the kiosk I glanced 

and saw Ma Moonit pushing her open palm

in Big Mama's face. Big Mama crooked her arm

and her fist tilted as it tipped something 

onto Mama Moonit's hand. She dumped the thing 

in her mouth, wiping her stained hand

on her wrapper as she walked around 

the kiosk back to the house. When she did that;

half of the day, she'd shut her mouth tight

227

answering every greeting with a nod

of her head. It was a sign too her blood 

or rather, mood wasn't hot that day.

She was prone not to fight but play.

Returning home from her hustles 

on a bad day, Ma Moonit would tussle 

right from the front to the very end 

of the compound, every error she'd amend.

She'd quarrel with every item wrongly placed.

Serious offenders would immediately face,

228

if they failed to own up to their deeds,

a string of curses. Without doubt, everyone did

love seeing her in the present mood.

Kids streaked out from every nook

after a boy running out to the street 

with his kite. The kite-owner almost hit

a parked bike with the excited kids 

tailing him, someone leaped and hit

the thread but we all shouted at him

to get out of the way or we would beat him.

229

The kite flyer whose mother was a seamstress 

had enough thread with him and we did press

he released it all. He dropped the big spool 

of thread on the ground as the wind helped pull

the kite up, his thumb and index finger 

jerking the thread to move it higher.

When the line was taut, the kite would spin.

We followed the display with cheers and grins.

As he released more thread, the kite 

would steady and go on the upward flight.

230

The sun was burning across the sky.

From street to street we chased who did fly

his kite, instructing and cheering him on.

The bikes clanged their bells and a horn

a lone cart tooted rolling its goods

towards Old Market. Our neighbourhood

boasted of two markets, the old and new.

The old stemmed from our forebears who had in view

a week comprised of eight days but the new

came with the 'mbakara' who did that review