Market Fire and drama
Dust and silk
The morning air was heavy with heat and dust.
Amaka stood with her arms folded, leaning beside her mother's weathered stall, eyeing the trays of vegetables like they were thorns sent to punish her.
"Amaka!" her mother called from inside the small clay house. "You better don't come back home with my pepper. You hear me? All these things, I want to see money o! I'm going to Emeka's mother's village, we'll come back before evening."
Amaka rolled her eyes. "Mama I've heard, I've heard. You've said it like five times already."
"And don't fight anybody today o!" her mother added sternly, pointing a crooked finger in her direction. "I'm not there to separate you. Stay in your lane. Sell, and come back home in peace."
"Yes ma," Amaka mumbled with no energy, dragging the trays outside.
She didn't like the market. Not the shouting, not the sweat, and definitely not the women who always had something to say with their bitter mouths and loose lips.
She set up her small corner, displaying tomatoes, peppers, ugu leaves, okra and tubers of yam. She sat on a low wooden stool and crossed her legs, resting her chin in her palm.
The gossip didn't take long.
"Amaka maka," one of the older women called out mockingly. "You came to market today? Wonders shall never end!"
Laughter erupted from two other stalls.
"Who beat you to wake up early today?" another added. "You wan finally join us poor people abi?"
Amaka didn't flinch. She stared at her vegetables like she couldn't hear them. The sun was already biting, and she hadn't even sold more than one small bowl of pepper.
She was regretting this already.
That was when he came.
Chief Edem.
Big stomach. Big mouth. Big lies.
Married with eight children and still thought he was God's gift to young girls.
"Ah, Amaka my dear…" he said in that irritating smooth tone as he waddled over, his shirt halfway unbuttoned and his eyes crawling all over her. "You're looking beautiful this morning. As always."
She didn't even look up. "You want buy something ehn, Chief?"
He chuckled. "No, no. I just came to admire. You know, I've always said it — if I was younger—"
"You're not younger," Amaka cut in, finally raising her eyes. "You're old. And disgusting. Go home to your wife and the football team you call children."
Chief Edem shifted, slightly embarrassed. "Ah ah, Amaka—"
"Don't 'ah ah' me," she snapped, rising to her feet now. "Eight children! Eight! And you're still chasing girls that can be your daughter's age mate? Do you even have shame?"
The market went silent for a moment before exploding into "Ehen!" and "Tell him!" and "Useless man!"
"Useless old man, look at you," Amaka continued, voice rising. "If you're not buying pepper, then remove your dirty shadow from my front!"
Someone in the back shouted, "I trust Amaka!"
Another added, "Edem, carry your wahala go house!"
Chief Edem, humiliated, scowled and muttered curses as he turned and stormed off, his slippers smacking the dusty ground.
Amaka hissed and sat back down, eyes burning with anger and heat.
She picked up a hand fan and started fanning herself. "Nonsense."
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The sun hung high in the sky that morning, casting a golden glow over the village market, where life buzzed as usual , traders shouting prices, children running barefoot, the scent of fresh produce and roasted maize in the air. But everything stilled, slowly, almost with awe, as a black US-branded SUV rolled into the dusty market square.
Tunde stepped out, dressed in his signature white kaftan — the fabric crisp and flawless, not a single speck of dust dared to cling to it. His scent, a clean, expensive fragrance with notes of citrus and oud, followed him like a breeze. Behind him, several men in official vests and measuring gear followed closely, their eyes scanning the market terrain.
The villagers watched, whispering excitedly. The women at their stalls leaned toward each other, muttering in hushed tones, "Na that Lagos man wey wan do borehole be that?" "See as e fresh like angel." "I hear say e mama na from this village."
Tunde smiled politely as he walked past them, nodding occasionally but not slowing his pace. The men behind him began marking the ground beside the market, just behind the chief's residence, as discussed. Tunde walked ahead, ear pod in one ear, speaking quietly to one of his engineers on the phone.
"Yes, it must be accessible," he said smoothly. "We need to ensure it's near the chief's house, but close enough for the market women to fetch without stress. The old stream isn't healthy. No, we'll install taps in different spots — four at least. Yes. It'll cut down walking time, especially for the elderly."
He nodded as he passed a group of women, who suddenly burst into loud, excited greetings. "Ah! Well done, our son!" "God bless you!" "We dey pray for you o!"
He kept smiling, though their volume and excitement made him chuckle to himself. As he rounded a corner between vegetable stalls, he slowed.
There she was.
Amaka.
Sitting by a stall, a tray of tomatoes, peppers, and onions spread out before her. But she wasn't yelling prices like the others. Her posture was straight, composed. Her lips slightly pursed. She looked bored — or maybe distant, like her spirit wasn't in the market at all. Something about her quietness, the way she didn't blend in, caught Tunde's attention.
He didn't know when a smile crept onto his face.
He turned, ignoring the whispers behind him, and approached her stall.
"Excuse me," he said, gently pointing to the tomatoes. "How much is this pepper?"
Amaka looked up, startled. For a moment, her eyes widened, then quickly flicked to the side. A crowd of market women and young girls were staring, mouths agape. One woman even dropped her basket.
She swallowed nervously, her face tight.
"Two hundred naira," she said quietly, without smiling.
Tunde nodded. "Can I get it, please?"
She quickly began packing the tomatoes, eyes still avoiding his. He noticed her hands trembling slightly.
"I was hoping to see you again," he added gently, voice calm and warm.
Amaka didn't respond.
"You don't like strangers speaking to you?" he asked.
"I just… I just think you can find many people to be your friend," she whispered, still not meeting his eyes. "A lot of people here will be very willing."
He tilted his head slightly. "Well, I suppose my spirit chose you."
She paused for a moment, almost scoffing, but her face remained serious. When she was done packing, she began tying the nylon, clearly uneasy.
"Sir," she whispered again, urgently this time, "you shouldn't be speaking to me here. They will talk. They'll tell my mama I was speaking to a man, and I'll be in very big trouble."
Tunde looked around and realized the women were still staring — some whispering, others blatantly gawking. He smiled and reached into his wallet. He pulled out three thousand naira, folded it, and passed it to her subtly.
"Take this," he said, smiling lightly. "I don't have change, and you know if I try, they'll suspect."
Amaka's eyes widened. She stepped back slightly. "It's just two hundred naira, sir," she whispered again, panicked. "Please, give me one thousand instead — that would've been okay. This one is too much. They'll talk even more."
He leaned in just slightly, still smiling. "Just collect it. I promise I'm not trying to put you in trouble."
She hesitated, biting her lower lip, then snatched the money quietly, stuffing it under the table. "You should go now," she said without looking up. "Please."
Tunde nodded, touched his chest lightly in thanks, and walked away.
As he passed another stall, he handed one of the elderly women twenty thousand naira with a warm smile and a quick word of blessing. That action sent a ripple of shouts and excitement through the market — some screamed, others clapped. A group of women even followed him to the SUV, hoping for their own "miracle."
Back at Amaka's stall, the attention shifted.
"Ah ah, Amaka!" one woman teased. "So you know am well enough to sell pepper to am, abi?"
Another laughed, "Why he dey follow you talk sef? You get connection we no know?"
Amaka said nothing. Her eyes were still on the spot where Tunde had stood. Her face blank. Her heart pounding.
If these women told her mother — and she knew they would — they wouldn't say he was polite. Or that she warned him to stop. No, they would twist it. They'd say she smiled. That she laughed. That she followed him with her eyes.
And that would be enough to ruin her evening.
She bent over, carefully arranging the tomatoes again, trying to quiet her thoughts. But deep down, something had shifted.
And the village would never stop talking about it. And here she is with her 2,800 change, her mum must not know.
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