Thursday, November 15, 2018
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The Collector’s Dairy 

I was going to complete this story I started telling you about love in a banana plantation farm, when these other happenstances occurred.

There is this man who is keeping a woman who has grown-up children.

Every night, after going around and quaffing with the woman, they would come back to her place, pass the children in the outer room already asleep, or apparently so, and get into the bedroom and perform their duty to one another till morning.

This night, the man came in and, as usual, they played the entire night.

The man got out that morning to find the rear windshield of his car which he had packed hard by the house smashed and the radio and musical set and some valuables gone.

Neighbours suspected that, maybe, the children did not find it funny and did not take it kindly, what their mother was doing with the man.

However, the children had left the home very early that morning. When the man discovered the damage to his car and came back to tell the woman, she got out and did not find the children.

In the next neighbourhood, a few days ago, Massa Nga left for work on his farm, but returned an hour later to find a motorcycle parked in front of his door.

He entered the sitting room and found that the door of his and his wife’s bedroom was bolted from inside. He sat down and heard talking and grunts of love-making coming from inside – one of the voices his wife’s.

The duo seems to go on recess.
After about fifteen minutes, a fresh session began, Massa Nga waited, patiently.

The session went on for about five minutes, then, he heard a sigh of relief and a snort of satisfaction.

After about two minutes of discussion, the door was unlatched and a young man came out buttoning his shirt over which there was something that looked like a sport jacket. Apparently, the young man of about 27 was one of the commercial motorcycle riders popularly known as bendskineurs or okada boys or achaba boys.

Massa Nga, in his 50s got up and told the young man: “Sit down and let us talk. The young, overwhelmed by fright, hesitated.

“Sit down and let us talk,” Massa Nga repeated adding, “if you don’t want the whole quarter to know that you are here.” The young man obliged.

“Now, you like my woman and I like your bike. Take the woman and give me the bike” Massa Nga said unfolding a sheet of paper – a form – titled certificate of sale and started filling it. A motley crowd of anxious neighbours; men, women and children, was gathering outside.

Neighbours had seen him come back and whispers went round that it had finally happened. Massa Nga had been informed that that was what the wife was doing but he had retorted asking if they wanted him to stay away from the farm and let the six children he and the wife had lack what to eat.

The wife, 37, was a petty trader selling mostly the things Massa Nga brought from the farm in front of the family house.

Massa Nga asked for the young man’s national identity card and when he removed the wallet containing the documents of the motorcycle and the ignition key to bring out the ID card, Massa grabbed them, looked for the ID card number and wrote it on the form.

Then he turned it around; “Sign it!” The young, panic-stricken signed it with a shaky hand. Massa Nga gave the young man his national identity card. A sale certificate had thus been established.

Massa then called the woman to come out, she did and he took her hand and put inside the young man’s hand and asked him to; “take your woman go,” and as they moved out, he wheeled the motorcycle into his house and locked the door. The crowd started jeering at the woman and the young man and Massa Nga asked them to stop.

“Wunna for do da wan na for the tam weh yi been still be na ma woman. Wunna lep dem dem go.”

The Collector

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