Another man’s property.
It is the 12th of June, and you are currently in a moving Starlet vehicle alongside five other passengers.
The air is humid, and you chew your gum silently as you stare out of the window while loud music plays through your headphones. Your car pauses at a police checkpoint, and you notice the little hijab-drenched girls running in between the many waiting vehicles, desperate to sell their tiger nuts to whomever, even if it meant selling to the inanimate windshield.
The slender, stone-faced woman beside you stretches her hand toward the window and exchanges two hundred naira notes for some tiger nuts. Aisha, on the other end, tries to do the same, but the two little children on her lap restrict her movement. Her grey hijab smells like smoke mixed with dust, and the foul odour has you thinking of Mr Ahmed — your unpleasant project supervisor.
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Suddenly, your gaze meets the round, beady eyes of a young girl in cornrows. She stares intently at you, and you stare back, lost for words at her demeanour and rare beauty. You are unaware of when your hands reach for the black purse in your designer tote bag, picking out a two hundred naira note and stretching it forth in exchange for two tiger nuts. The little girl is excited and runs back to her mother, and it feels as though the earth had turned perfectly square-shaped.
She returns again in hopes of making another sale, and you notice the gaze of the pudgy, uncouth man seated at the front straining upon her. It is an unpleasant gaze. He steps out of the vehicle in his oil-stained blue jellabiya, adjusting the cap on his head and chewing tacklessly on the neem tree stick. He rubs the little girl’s head, and she shivers slightly, stepping back to stare into his eyes, hoping he is another blessed customer.
He smiles a sinister smile and leads her by the hand to the mat placed just by the little hut her mother was seated on. He stoops low to say his warm regards and fishes out some one thousand naira notes from his oil-stained pockets. Your eyes trace his hand movement, and you notice as he squeezes the notes tightly before handing them over. The little girl’s mother rises in astonishment and begins to mutter “Nagode” and “La ila.” You frown as their conversation deepens and notice the exchange of cell numbers before the pudgy man turns to stare at the little girl and pecks her on the cheek.
Your eyes widen in horror, and the little girl, in confusion, turns to stare at you as though in search of what to do.
You knew.
She knew.
They knew.
What that gesture meant.
You look away. That is what you are supposed to do. It is none of your business.
The pudgy man returns into the car, and you all wait for the police officers to dismiss the vehicles ahead before continuing your journey. You play Burna Boy’s “Monsters You Made” and close your eyes as the beady eyes of the little girl flash across your vision.
Another man’s property.
