— "Smells Like Money"
Dust and Silk
The door creaked open and slammed shut again. Amaka didn't flinch. She already knew it was her mother. No one else entered the house with that mix of tiredness and authority.
"Maka," her mother called from the sitting room, dumping her handbag on the nearest chair. "You're home?"
"No, Mummy. It's my ghost you're seeing," Amaka muttered under her breath.
"What did you say?"
"Nothing o."
Mama appeared in the doorway, wrapper tight on her waist, forehead slightly shiny from heat and gist. She was smiling like someone who had spent the whole afternoon laughing with women who had more stories than time.
"So how was it?" Mama asked, eyes narrowed like she was already expecting wahala.
Amaka slumped against the doorframe. "Hot. Crowded. Confusing. And smelling like sin."
Mama blinked. "Sin?"
"Yes nah!" Amaka flared up. "Everybody there was smelling like punishment. Like theyg fought their bathroom and lost. You'd think they were giving away money the way people gathered like ants!"
Mama laughed. "You don't have respect."
"Well, I didn't see him," Amaka continued, folding her arms. "After all that stress. I didn't even see who everybody was shouting about. The smell nearly killed me."
Mama raised an eyebrow. "You didn't see him?"
Amaka turned fully now, curiosity lighting her face. "Wait… you saw him?"
Her mother gave her that look. The look that said you're still a child, shift. "Yes, I saw him. Briefly."
Amaka stepped closer, eyes wide. "Describe him. Abeg. Because people were acting like Jesus appeared in a Benz."
Mama adjusted her headscarf. "He's... fine."
Amaka's mouth dropped. "Mummy! You? You're admitting a man is fine?"
"Don't be silly," Mama snapped, though the corners of her mouth twitched. "He's old enough to be your uncle."
"So?"
"So nothing!" Her mother eyed her with warning. "I only said he looks clean. Mature. He smells like money — you don't even need to ask. You'll just know. And the way he talks… very polished. Not all these your age mates with oversabi and sagging jeans."
Amaka was grinning now. "You like him."
Her mother clapped her hands once. "God forbid! Did I say that? Maka, please don't come and put your foolishness in my mouth. I'm just telling you what I saw."
"But you said he smells like money—"
"Will you shut up and go and check what we'll eat this night!"
Amaka groaned loudly. "Mummy nawa for you o."
"Your mates are married with three children. You're here grinning like you saw Akanna."
"Please," Amaka muttered, turning toward the kitchen. "Akanna no even smell like money the way you're describing this man."
Mama shouted from behind her, "If I hear 'smell like money' from your mouth again, I'll use this my slippers to anoint your head!"
Amaka giggled as she walked into the kitchen, but something had changed.
Her mother saw him.
Described him.
And now... that man wasn't just a story anymore.
He was real.
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– Trouble, Laughter, and Wahala
The next morning, Amaka was up before the sun finished rising. Not because she was trying to be productive or anything holy, but because a mosquito had nearly taken her ear off in the middle of the night. She hissed as she turned on the mat, face still swollen with sleep.
"Rubbish mosquito. If I catch you ehn..."
After brushing her teeth outside and fetching a bucket of water from the backyard drum, she freshened up and tied her favorite Ankara wrapper—the one with faded lions dancing around the hem—and decided to go and see Ngozi. There was always trouble somewhere, and if there wasn't, they'd find it. Or at least laugh at the people who found it first.
Ngozi's house was only a short walk from hers, and by the time she got there, the gate was open, as usual. She stepped over a sleeping goat near the entrance and shouted, "Ngozi ooo! Your future wife is here!"
Ngozi peeked out from her window with toothbrush foam around her lips. "Come inside, joor. I'm almost done."
A few minutes later, they were both seated outside on a bench, sipping cold garri and groundnut from matching tins. The breeze was lazy, but enough to ease the heat.
Amaka didn't waste time. "Guess what?"
Ngozi narrowed her eyes. "You got pregnant by thinking too much?"
Amaka hissed. "Be serious, joor! My mummy saw him yesterday."
"Who?"
"That fine man everybody was shouting about—the one in the black car."
Ngozi dropped her garri tin. "Your mummy saw him? What did she say?"
Amaka grinned. "First she acted holy, like she was just observing. But then she said—wait for it—'he is fine'."
Ngozi's jaw dropped. "From your mother's mouth?"
"Word for word."
Ngozi burst into laughter. "If Mama Amaka said he's fine, then that man must be dripping in anointing!"
Amaka clapped her hand in amusement. "She even said he smells like money and speaks like someone that studied abroad. But that he looks like our uncle's age mate."
They both collapsed in laughter, clutching their stomachs.
"Wetin concern us with age?" Ngozi wheezed. "Is he married? No. Does he sag trouser? No. He might marry you ."
"I reject it in Jesus name!" Amaka laughed harder. "One rich man like that, me wey never see ten thousand together?"
They were still giggling when a loud scream tore through the compound next door.
"Awka di egwu," Ngozi whispered.
Another shout followed. This time clearer.
"You this ashewo! God will punish that your smelling toto!"
Amaka and Ngozi jumped up, peering toward the gate separating them from the drama. Two women were standing chest-to-chest like wrestlers in a final round. One was Mama Ejike—big, bold, and always ready to scatter ground. The other was Adaora, the young, flashy neighbor who'd recently moved in and had been the subject of more than a few compound whispers.
"You slept with my husband, you useless goat!" Mama Ejike screamed, wrapper half undone, one slipper missing.
Adaora wasn't backing down. "Your husband na goat! You no dey feed am, you no dey satisfy am. Wetin you expect? E go find better thing na!"
Ngozi gasped. "Ah! Did she just say that?"
"Yes, o!" Amaka grabbed her arm. "Jesus is Lord."
"Look at this one with bleaching cream knuckles!" Mama Ejike charged forward. "You think because you rub foundation like paint, you fit open leg anyhow? Tufiakwa! That toto don turn express road!"
Adaora laughed mockingly. "But your husband entered the express well well. He even licked plate!"
"Yeeeee!" a small crowd had gathered by now, and the compound buzzed like market square.
Mama Ejike picked up a plastic chair and launched it.
Amaka screamed. "This na film LIVE!"
The chair missed Adaora, who ducked like a pro and retaliated with a full slap that echoed like a gunshot.
Ngozi shouted, "Omooooo!"
From there, it was madness.
They dragged each other's hair, wrappers flying, insults flying faster.
"Your toto na public toilet!"
"You dey mad! Your breast don fall like old mango!"
"You use juju hold my husband, witch!"
People rushed to separate them. Mama Okechukwu from down the road was holding a broom like a weapon, shouting, "Let me flog sense into both of you!"
Mr. Anayo, the local tailor, tried to come between them but got punched in the face.
Eventually, a man on a bike who claimed to be a pastor managed to calm them down by speaking in tongues until everyone was too confused to continue.
As the dust settled and the crowd slowly dispersed, Amaka and Ngozi sat on the ground, breathless from laughter.
"I swear, if I die today, I will be buried with joy," Ngozi wheezed.
Amaka wiped tears from her eyes. "And to think I wanted to stay home. Look at what I would've missed."
"They should be doing episodes of this every Sunday after service," Ngozi added. "Drama and deliverance."
Amaka grinned. "And that, my friend, is why I will never marry a man who talks too much. Because once you hear too much gist, you go fear marriage."
"Or at least check his family history," Ngozi added with a wicked smile.
They both burst into laughter again, slapping the dusty ground like it owed them joy.
Life was too hot, too loud, too unpredictable. But it was never boring.
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