Do you remember long ago, when Pa Ozo’s daughter—the one who was in Port Harcourt all those years doing tailoring—returned to the village, and all the women had to call a meeting to devise a means of holding their men to their wrappers? I do not mean his second daughter who is tall and fair and has a flat backside like old slippers. I mean the first one, the short one with nyansh the size of a hummer jeep and bosom so protruding and full of milk she could have suckled a hundred soldiers in the Civil War. Yes, that is the one I am talking about. You should know her.
Have you forgotten she returned to the village and set it ablaze? It was the year 2009. Barack Obama was already the president of America, and she came back with plenty-plenty stories. She said she travelled to America and was part of the Barack Obama campaign; she even had lots and lots of polo shirts with Obama’s face and The Change We Need inscribed on them. It was later we found out she was in Port Harcourt all the while and that she never left the city nor her tailoring. We found out she got engaged to a Calabar man who ran away because, we heard, he said she could not stop doing it to him every day and every night. In their room, in the sitting room, in the kitchen, at her shop, at his workshop—everywhere, until the man abandoned his things and left town.
So, when she returned to the village with stories of America and Obama, we knew there was trouble; we knew that men would soon start selling all they had to buy her drinks at Papa Ejiofor’s shop and nkwobi at Nwanyi Imo’s eatery. We knew that, soon, there would be fights and quarrels among the men. That our women would queue in front of Pa Ozo’s house, demanding she returns to wherever she came from.
Do you remember the day she came back? It was early evening. She came in a lorry, with all her load—two sewing machines, cooking utensils, furniture, bed, everything. While she unpacked, news circulated that Ama was back, and women came to see her. They held her, turned her about this way and that, to weigh how she had changed, how much she had changed. They marvelled at the size of her upper chamber and giggled in adoration at the size of her down chamber, but they knew there was going to be trouble if this woman was of easy virtue.
While they walked back home in groups, they discussed her. What woman of good virtue would have those sorts of endowments, tell me? They asked themselves. Tell me, is it not by too much doing and doing that a woman’s things enlarges that much?
Of course, you are right, Mama Ezinne. You are right, Mama Nkechi, else, how could she have buttocks so massive they could break a wooden bench, eh?
Bia, is it not Ama of yesterday? When she left for the city, she was like the figure one. One like this my finger. True. So, how did she manage to develop those massive endowments if not for too much doing, huh?
And on and on the conversation continued all around the village until the men heard and cleaned their ears. The next morning, it was as if someone blew a whistle. They trooped to Pa Ozo’s compound to see his daughter whom their wives talked about all night, while adding small-small threats here and there to warn them not to dare think of looking at this city woman, talk more of winking at her.
As they gathered, each greeted Pa Ozo who already had a bottle of Schnapps on a table. They asked of his health and talked of how the harmattan was becoming so fierce that it could kill. Then, they poured themselves some Schnapps and thanked God for granting his daughter, whom they hadn’t seen, a safe trip. When Ama finally came out of the house, carrying the heap of clothes she wanted to wash, Pa Ozo knew that his daughter was going to cause him a heart attack, for the men all stopped drinking and talking. They stared, mouth open, flies feasting on their lips—they all had intentions.
Ama smiled broadly at the men in greeting.
They said no. Did she forget her manners in the city? How could she greet them standing far away?
Come, come our daughter, bia ebe a.
Ama approached and genuflected for each of them. They patted her back, rubbed her shoulders, squeezed her arm, and smiled in delight. They could not hold themselves, for she was wearing a very short skirt—the back of the skirt was lower than the front because her massive buttocks had taken most of it. She was dressed in a black singlet and parts of her bosom escaped the front and the sides of the singlet, causing the men to swallow all the saliva in their mouths. Some of them hurried to the backyard to ease themselves, and most excused themselves and went home. Pa Ozo knew he would have to speak with his daughter, else she would be lynched in no time by village women.
A few days later, Ama rented a large empty shop along the village road. It was on an isolated land and once served as a chemist shop. She put up a big signpost that read Obama Talorin Shop and put two of her sewing machines in it. Then, she travelled to town and bought bales of various clothing materials and displayed them in her shop. She also divided the shop in two with a thick pink curtain so women could use the inner section for fitting.
II
The first day she started work in her shop, a man came. He said he had come to have his measurement taken; he wanted to sew a trouser for the age-grade meeting and wondered if Ama could do it for him. Ama told him she wasn’t into men’s designs.
The man said, no, of course no. How can you be in the city all these years and not know how to design men’s clothes? Come, come, take my measurement ozugbo.
Ama refused.
He sat, grumbling, disappointed. He told Ama that the city had treated her well. What did you eat over there? Ha, what kind of drinks do they take over there that could make a person’s body so soft?
He patted Ama’s arm. Ama shook him off.
Mind yourself, she said.
He was ashamed. She stared him down. He dipped his hand into his pocket, brought out the money he had for his design and placed it on the table. Ama smiled, took it, and sluggishly placed it deep in her bosom and patted her breasts—they jumped up and down for they were massive things. The man shifted uncomfortably. A woman was approaching.
Ngwa, you must leave now, Ama said.
The man stood reluctantly. His hand brushed Ama’s arm—there was intention.
In the evening, another man came. He was in his late forties and had a wife and three children. He traded in timber and was the richest man in the village. It was already dark, and Ama had lit a hurricane lantern. He said he came to say welcome to her. Had she forgotten when they were small and how they used to play on their way returning from the village school? Ama could not remember.
Wait, chelu, have you forgotten one night, during moonlight hide and seek game, we hid at the back of Mazi Nduka’s plantain tree and touched each other?
Ama remembered. You are Asari?
He nodded.
His eyes twinkled like the stars as they exchanged stories. He told her stories of how he travelled far into the forests of Cameroon to buy timber. He told her funny stories and she laughed gaily, her voice hoarse, yet to Asari’s ears they were melodic, not like that of his wife. He sighed. They talked far into the night.
She said she had to go. He insisted he walked her to her father’s compound. He was her father’s friend. Did she not know that he, Asari, supplied her father the timber he used in roofing his new building, and her father paid in instalments? She thanked him. They walked down the bushy path as the crickets chirped in discordant tunes. Around the village swamp she said she was feeling cold, and he rubbed her shoulder warmly. Then, his hand stayed; after a few steps, he rubbed again.
That night, Asari could not sleep. He stayed awake all through, thinking of the city woman and her endowments; he knew he had to move fast before another man outwitted him.
The next day, he bought her some fresh meat from the butcher. She would have to prepare egusi soup with the meat, he said as he gave her some money. You need money to settle down in this village. You need some kerosene; you know in the city you are used to electricity. She thanked him.
He would come back in the evening and escort her to her father’s compound, he said. It would not be wise for a city woman, new in the village, to walk down the paths alone, at night, mbanu!
When Asari left, Papa ND brought his wife to Ama’s shop to pay for her design. Papa ND was the stingiest man in the village, and everyone knew he followed his wife to the market to be sure she did not defraud him. Ama gave the woman a fashion magazine, she made her selection, and they agreed on a price. ₦1200. Papa ND paid reluctantly to his wife’s surprise and delight. He had never paid that much for a design since they got married—and that was twelve years ago. They left the shop, but he returned less than fifteen minutes later. Papa ND told Ama he came back to thank her for agreeing to sew for his wife.
Ama told him it was her job, why thank her?
He said well, he knew it was her job, but if you thank the akidi woman, she would prepare another porridge for you. He stammered, and, with his eyes on the floor, said he liked her. Ama’s face grimaced in disappointment.
Why? She asked.
He stammered inaudibly. She didn’t know, he said, but he was at her father’s compound the day she returned and could not keep her off his mind ever since.
She smiled and thanked him.
It was the most beautiful smile, ever. His manhood nodded in his trousers. He had never felt that young and virile. He asked if he could come back in the evening so they could talk.
She said yes, but that she was hungry now.
He dipped his hand into his pocket, brought out some money, and gave her a thousand naira.
She said, Ah, just that? What will you do with all the money in your pocket?
There was a piece of dirt on his hair. She stood and picked it off and smoothened his hair. Then, she collected the money in his pocket, all of it.
He smiled sheepishly and said, thank you.
In the evening, Asari brought some oranges, bush meat prepared in peppery sauce, and four bottles of 33 Export. They ate and talked and giggled in delight. One or two men, on their way to Ama’s shop heard the laughter. They approached and heard it increase in tempo and turned back, each passing the other on the road and giving one or two excuses why they were on that path, each knowing what the other knew, wanting what the other wanted.
When the bottles of beer were on the ground, empty, their contents now wreaking havoc in the heads of their consumers, Asari’s stool began to shift on its own accord towards Ama’s stool. He told her of the road to Otukpo that was a death trap and how Tiv men were the biggest womanisers in the whole wide world. She laughed on hearing that. He laughed at her laughter and rested his hand on her exposed lap. She was quiet. His hand moved up, exploring, searching—there was no resistance. Then, he rubbed the flesh of her thigh and aahed, but he pulled away fearfully. She took his hand gently and placed it on her underwear and guided his middle finger through the side, to the jungle place, to the entrance. He was surprised. She was bold.
Touch it. Ah…this way.
She guided his finger; she stroked, he stroked.
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