There are three things every Nigerian should avoid if they value their sanity.
Going to the bank on a Monday.
Driving when it has just started raining.
And deciding to visit a local market after office hours.
Guess which genius ignored the third one.
Me.
The annoying thing is that this whole adventure could have been avoided…If I had planned properly…If I hadn’t spent the entire afternoon convincing myself that I would “quickly stop by the market.”
There is no such thing as quickly in an evening market. By the time I got there, the place looked like somebody had announced free money.
People everywhere…women balancing baskets on their heads like gravity had signed a special agreement with them…wheelbarrow pushers shouting, “Side! Side! Side!”…traders advertising their tomatoes as if they had personally harvested them from heaven…children weaving through impossible spaces…somebody was arguing over ₦200…another person was laughing loudly…someone else was shouting that pepper had become more expensive because “the government has entered everything.”
I stood at the entrance for a full minute, maybe two. I actually considered turning back, I even took one step backwards then I imagined getting home empty-handed. My housemate, Kemi, would definitely ask, “So… where are the ingredients?”
I’d mumble something and she’d narrow her eyes saying, “You entered the market and came back with air?” Then she’d laugh, the kind that follows you into your room. No, I couldn’t give her that satisfaction.
I adjusted my handbag, pulled the zip twice just to make sure it was closed, held it tightly against my body like it contained national secrets. Then I whispered to myself, “You can do this.”
I marched into the crowd and immediately…somebody stepped on my foot. Before I could recover, another person brushed past me so hard that I nearly greeted the ground personally. I hadn’t even bought onions yet.
The bargaining alone was another battle.
“How much?”
“Five thousand.”
“Five thousand?”
“Yes.”
“For these ones?”
“Madam, if you know where they are cheaper, buy there.”
Negotiation in Nigerian markets deserves its own university degree. By the time I finished buying tomatoes, pepper and onions, I felt like I’d won three court cases back-to-back. Only one thing remained…Beef. Simple, or so I thought.
The meat section looked like the entire city had suddenly developed a craving for pepper soup. People were packed together shoulder to shoulder, everyone stretching money over everyone else’s head and everybody talking at once. The butcher himself somehow understood every single order. I still don’t know how.
I tried squeezing in, someone pushed me and I pushed back by accident. Another person squeezed between us, the crowd shifted like ocean waves, one moment I was in front and the next moment I had been carried backwards without moving my own feet.
Honestly, if markets were Olympic sports, Nigerians would dominate. I was just trying to regain my balance when I felt a gentle tap on my arm, not a push, not a shove but a tap.
I turned around, an elderly woman was sitting on the concrete slab covering the drainage beside the meat stall. She looked tiny, almost fragile and having on a faded wrapper and a simple blouse. With one hand resting on a walking stick, she looked up at me.
“My daughter…” Her voice was so soft that I don’t know how I heard it above all that noise, “You stepped on my foot.”
Everything inside me stopped. My heart didn’t just skip a beat, it packed a small bag and relocated. I looked down…Oh no…Oh no…How?…When? I hadn’t even realised.
Without thinking, I bent down immediately. Not fully kneeling but that respectful half-curtsy every Nigerian child somehow learns without being taught.
“Mama!”
“I’m so sorry.”
“I’m very, very sorry.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I swear I didn’t know.”
She simply nodded, “It’s okay.”
But somehow…It wasn’t okay. At least not for my overactive imagination. Because my brain immediately remembered every story I’d ever heard growing up.
Don’t insult old people.
Don’t shout at elderly women.
Don’t refuse an old person’s greeting.
Don’t step on an old woman’s foot.
What if she curses you?
What if she has powers?
What if she’s one of those mysterious grandmothers people whisper about?
I know…I know…It sounds ridiculous. I’m a grown woman, I have a degree, and yet…There I was…apologising like my future depended on it, “Mama, I’m truly sorry.”
She smiled faintly, “I’ve forgiven you.”
I nodded quickly, “Thank you, Mama.”
I took one step away, then turned back, “You’re sure you didn’t get hurt?”
She chuckled, “I’m fine.”
I still wasn’t satisfied, “I’m really sorry.”
This time she laughed properly, “My daughter, if you apologise again, you’ll make me think you stepped on my foot on purpose.”
Even I laughed, a nervous laugh, “I just don’t want you to be angry with me.”
She shook her head gently, “Go and buy your meat.”
I thanked her again. Yes, again, then I finally faced the butcher. The entire time I was buying beef, I kept glancing back. She was still sitting there, calmly watching the crowd. At one point, she caught me looking and she smiled, a proper grandmother’s smile.
This instantly melts away unnecessary fear. I smiled back, this time without panic, without superstition, just… gratitude.
As I walked home with my shopping bags digging into my fingers, I started laughing to myself. Imagine me…A whole adult and almost conducting a public apology tour because I accidentally stepped on somebody’s foot. Wait until Kemi hears this, she won’t let me rest.
She’ll probably imitate the way I kept saying, “Mama, I’m sorry.” over and over again. She’ll laugh until she cries and if I’m being honest…I’ll probably laugh too.
Because somewhere between the noise, the pushing, the bargaining and my completely unnecessary panic…I had forgotten something very simple. Sometimes an elderly woman is just an elderly woman. And sometimes… The heaviest thing we carry isn’t a market bag. It’s the stories we’ve been carrying since childhood.