Nigeria Journal: Market Day

Dr. Korieh dropped us off at the market’s threshold and drove off. Immediately upon exiting the car, my senses were pummeled by a cacophony of smells and colors. The streets were literally pulsing with life. Much like when they’re driving, Nigerians seem to thrive in a chaotic existence. There was literally no rhyme or reason as to where a vendor set up his/her shop. While walking, you’re bombarded by shoulders, sweaty arms, and the ubiquitous “wheelbarrow boys” who walk behind carrying loads of goods to be sold. They could care less whether they chaff the back of your ankles by jamming their wheelbarrow into your legs. They would just as soon as run you over than ask you to move aside. One must always have their head on a swivel. ANYTHING (and I mean it) can be purchased at this vast open-aired mall. Pastel –colored blouses and dingy bottles of kerosene? You got it. Dried shrimp and fish heads next to pounds of bitter greens? You got it. Vibrant cloth alongside vendors hawking cow heads and livers!? You got it. The floor of the market
was full of mud, blood, and vegetable residue. Clothes were hanging from umbrellas, while hagglers yelled out random prices in any direction, hoping to catch the attention of young ladies looking for a deal. There was so much to see (and avoid!) that my mind was literally having a difficult time taking it in. I found myself focusing solely on the vendor or person directly in front of me. Part of the reason why I had immediate “Nigerian-market-tunnel-vision” was because I was slightly overwhelmed. The other reason is that I did (I must admit) create quite a scene.

Owerri is not exactly a well-known tourist destination. Rarely, I am led to believe, do the citizens of this grand city see an “Oyibo”\ or “White man.” When Uche, Tara, and I exited the vehicle, the first thing I noticed was how much of a commotion my appearance created for the 10-15 young boys who were crowding around a delivery truck. At one point, I witnessed one of them run back to his mother’s shop and pull more of his friends out, just so they could come and take a look at me. I’m sure I was quite a sight: rolled up khakis, exposing skinny white-guy legs, a blotchy appearance due to the sun, and a white shirt that was soaked through with sweat. Oh, yeah, and a bald spot—can’t forget that one. If I am the only white man these poor children see, I feel I must apologize to my “race,” for I am not the greatest of physical specimens. Nevertheless, there I was, engulfed in a vortex of humanity. And amidst all the sights, action, and chaos, inevitably EVERY SINGLE VENDOR would see me and greet me or ask me to purchase a good.

The first 30 minutes I was nervous. I was attempting to figure out whether many of the people were surprised/happy/upset to see me. I did not want to talk too much or look too many people in the eye. When I found this strategy to be essentially sucking away at my soul, I decided to be myself and wave and smile at those who were speaking directly to me. And from that moment on, I had a fantastic time. I began to haggle for prices. I purchased gifts and a few items of cloth. And at one point, I got myself into a rather lively discussion with four young male vendors selling dried shrimp. They called me over saying, “WHITE MAN! You need this.” I responded with a quick, “thank you for telling me what I need. Do you have any beer? I need that.” At that they all laughed and then began asking me about whether I had ever eaten an African snail. Pointing to the ground, I followed the trajectory of their fingers, and low and behold, sitting on a tarp were the LARGEST snails I had ever seen in my life, still alive. They must have been about 6 inches in length with massive beautiful shells. I asked the men whether they tasted good and they answered, “Of course!” At that point, our conversation turned general with them asking me about my trip and why I was in Owerri. We bantered for a few minutes and laughed. In the course of the conversation, I found out that all of them have friends or relatives in the US, so they were big fans of the country. Many of them had aspirations to go to school. And a few of them asked whether I played music, which I answered in the affirmative. Finally, after about 10 minutes, Uche and Tara beckoned me to go. One of the vendors, upon my departure, looked at me and said, “I like you man. You’re cool. I hope you love Nigeria.” And I answered that I did. It was an incredibly positive experience and it enlivened my mood. I felt relieved.

Everyone was welcoming me into a part of their lives and their country. Of course they noticed me because my skin, but in actuality, they were more curious about my perception of them and their culture. After that, I walked a little higher through the vendor’s stalls, waving and greeting all those who made eye contact with me (or whispered to their neighbor). It’s OK. I wanted them to know I respect and acknowledge their curiosity. Whenever I would stop and enter a small shop, even if I didn’t purchase anything, the vendors would just be happy I stopped in to take a look. Upon leaving, they would tell me, “You are welcome!” And that would be it..

The sound in the market was incredible: there were the moist thuds of butchers knives slamming into bone and muscle, the crackle of grilled corn, the cacophony of sales vendors yelling their prices, the grinding of wheelbarrow axles, and the ubiquitous pulse of gas generators. And just when the area could not become anymore packed or cramped, a tractor trailer truck decided to make its way through the street. In a scene that seems likes it’s out of an action film, a two-ton truck literally inched its way through the market, making 90 degree turns and just barely missing vendors goods and toes by mere millimeters. There was screaming and a lot of commotion as the truck made its way through the market district. I was shocked at what I saw happening and turned to ask Uche if the truck was allowed to use the thoroughfare that was absolutely jam packed with vegetable vendors and buyers. He informed me that it was the market merchants who were actually breaking the law, as they were the ones setting up their shops (illegally) on the street. But, alas, in Nigeria everything goes. No one really complained, they all just worked together to get the truck through. And in less than 5 minutes time, all was back to normal. The vendors and shoppers moved back into their previously-held place. It was an ant hive. The truck didn’t stand a chance changing the course of flowing humans. It was swarm theory in homo-sapien form. 

I must have shaken about 25 hands today. At times I felt really silly. The only reason I was garnering attention was because I was indeed a foreigner. It was easy to see. Yet, I lived up to the sudden fame the people were throwing at me and wallowed in their hospitality. Smiles were beaming from many faces. It was, overall, one of the most positive and life-edifying experiences I’ve had in Nigeria.  

Unfortunately, there were a few truly uncomfortable moments—one of them being when we entered into the “Hausa” section of the market. While waiting to cross the street, I noticed a slight tug on my pant leg. Looking down to check and see whether a wheel-barrow boy wanted to pass me, I saw something that really surprised me: a young child of about 5, begging me for money. He was sitting in the ground, trying to wash my shoes, pointing to his stomach. After he did so, he would cup his hands in front of his chest and look up at me with sorrowful eyes. “Please, mister, please.” he said. I was actually quite disturbed. I had no money to give him. I kept telling him to please stop asking me because I had no money to give. I gently touched his shoulders and picked him up under his arm pits. I did not want him to wash my shoes. At that moment, I became EXTREMELY conscious of my white privilege. Even though I had no money at that moment to give, I knew in the back of my mind that I was not desperate. I had to get out of the situation. I began creeping further into the street. The little boy followed. I was now within about 10 inches of the whizzing traffic, and yet, he was still right beside me. I bent over and told him to please stay on this side of the road. And before he could answer, I pushed him back (gently) and went on my way.

I heard footsteps behind me. I stopped across the way to look at some apples. And upon me turning around to leave, three Hausa women, all pregnant and carrying small children, began begging me for money. They were clasping their hands over their breasts and looking me directly in the face, motioning that they had no money or food to feed their children. I looked at all three of them and told them that I had no Naira (currency) and that I literally had nothing to give. They were persistent. Following me from vendor to vendor, they surrounded me. Finally, I got frustrated and yelled for them to leave me alone. My Igbo friend Uche was furious.   And at his aggressive reaction, they finally backed away. I felt dirty and cheap.  I know they were desperate, but deep down I felt offended myself. They hounded me like I was nothing but a money machine. I was the white man of the market who would bring them out of poverty. It was offensive to me, but obviously, more offensive to their own notion of self-respect. I couldn’t imagine. I can’t really quite flesh-out my thoughts about this topic at this time. I’m exhausted and I don’t know if a public blog is a place to do so. Nevertheless, it’s an image and an experience that will stick in my mind for many years to come.