In the lively thoroughfares of Lagos, a bustling metropolis in West Africa, the sun cast its golden embrace upon the morning crowd. Amidst this vibrant tapestry of sounds and colors, a young girl's voice soared like a melodic thread through the streets.
"E ra ta, e se be...! Alata yin ti de oooooo! Fresh Tomatoes, Fresh Pepper!" Her words were a spirited declaration, echoing from street corners to hidden alleys. The clock's hands edged toward 9 a.m., marking a new week's beginning. But for Funke, time was a slippery concept. The morning assembly had begun at 8 a.m., and the school bell had already chimed. Yet, Funke's priority was clear: a few extra naira before she journeyed back home to her mother.
Late for school, she balanced her academic aspirations with the pragmatic needs of her life. In her heart, she knew her mother's expectations, the importance of punctuality, and the value of education. Still, being slightly tardy was the lesser evil compared to abandoning her street vending. She'd known struggle since her father's passing, and the equilibrium of her family remained elusive even after two years.
"Alata!" A woman's voice sliced through the morning air. Funke's attention veered toward the call, her curious gaze seeking the source. The woman's voice was commanding, stopping her mid-step. The world around her seemed to pause as if awaiting her response. A quick thump of her foot on the ground, a gesture akin to a charging ram at a festival, directed her focus across the street.
Hesitant yet intrigued, Funke approached the woman cautiously. Was the call meant for her? The woman's intent gaze fixed on something beyond Funke, the impatience evident in her stance. Funke hesitated, her heartbeats mirroring the rhythm of the city. Then, she inquired, "Did you call me, ma?" The woman's reply was sharp, revealing a lack of tolerance for trivial questions. Her words stung, an unexpected reaction to Funke's curiosity. She carefully set down her tray of fresh produce, adjusting the cloth that had balanced it upon her head.
In swift exchange, their negotiation unfolded. Mama Ijebu, the stern customer, selected her goods meticulously, swapping items with calculated precision. Funke navigated the dance of barter, her patience evident in each transaction. The mundane act of buying and selling turned into a symphony of market dynamics.
"Change this one too," Mama Ijebu instructed, her tone demanding. Funke complied, her practiced hands swiftly making the substitution. The interaction, though brief, encapsulated the rhythm of street life. The city flowed around them, a living entity in its own right.
"Thank you, ma," Funke acknowledged as she resettled the tray. She turned to leave, her thoughts lingering on the woman's peculiar demeanor. Just as she took her first step away, the woman's voice beckoned her back. Confusion knitted her brows, but Funke obeyed the call. Perhaps there was more to this than met the eye.
The woman's next words altered the course of this ordinary exchange. A hundred Naira note was extended, a currency not just in paper but in significance. Mama Ijebu's actions were uncharacteristic; she parted with her money rarely, and when she did, it held weight. A silent promise lay within that piece of paper – the promise of a meal, a small luxury, a chance to be a child amidst the burdens of life.
Funke's surprise gave way to gratitude, her words a humble acknowledgment of this unexpected gift. The scene unfolded like a vignette, a moment frozen in time. Mama Ijebu, an enigma of a woman, had shown a glimpse of her humanity, shattering the perception others held of her. She counted her wares, meticulously to the last pepper and tomato. And in this exchange, she had offered more than just produce; she had bestowed a fragment of compassion upon a young girl navigating the intricate pathways of survival.
As Funke walked away, the bustling city embraced her once more. The symphony continued, and the narrative of Lagos unfolded in its myriad stories, each layer woven with the threads of humanity.
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