The school bell sounded and as if on cue, the students began a mad rush for the exit gate. Their mass, a barely distinguishable assembly of kids of varying sizes in the white on grey combination of the school uniform, poured forward like bees on migration. The white shirt of a majority of them had turned brown, the product of a combination of inadequate washing and constant carefree attitude towards the white material.
Ganiu, a skinny JS 2 student of the school did not feel inclined to go home. Something told him the day ahead was gloomy. Unlike before, going home made him feel a little uneasy. “What could be lying in stock for him at home?” He wondered; “Maybe Grandma died” He soliloquised.
“No, she isn’t old enough” He answered himself.
“After all Grandpa lived to 98 before he died, Grandma should still have another 12 years or thereabout.” He surmised, playing God.
Still, the feeling persisted. Reluctantly, he picked his bag, a dirty green duffel which would have been beautiful without the torn handle and the miss-spelt ‘addedas’ scribbled across it.
By then, the exit had cleared and only a few students trickled out of the gate. He joined them and strolled towards home. At the junction of the street, he took a peek at the fried pork, popularly known as ‘elede dindin’ in the local parlance, being sold by the roadside. Several times, he’d fantasized about settling down to a bowl of garri with cold water and –if only– a twenty naira ‘elede dindin’ to go with it. Never for once had his fantasy became real. Not with the paltry and irregular five naira he took to school as pocket money. He tried to focus on the rest of the journey but the image of the pork, as always, deeply fried and dripping with vegetable oil on the brown big tray, never left his sub-consciousness. He walked on mechanically and was soon home.
Home was a ‘face–me–I–face–you’ house consisting of fourteen rooms, seven on each side of a corridor facing one another. The fourth room by the left was where his family, a family of six, including both parents, domiciled.
“E kuule o.” He shouted the greeting at his mother, who was sitting on a stool at the end of the corridor –the house’s makeshift kitchen- preparing egusi soup on a stove.
“Kaabo oko mi” she answered without looking up from what she was doing. “How was school today?” she asked, a piece of dry fish disappearing into her mouth.
“Fine.” Came the uninterested answer from Ganiu. “I’m hungry o Maami.”
“Don’t worry, food will soon be ready. Just go inside and change your clothes first, ehhhnnnn. Its only food you know!”
He went inside and dumped his bag on one of the two single–seaters in the sitting room cum bedroom. He slumped on the other and exhaled in exhaustion.
Then he saw it.
Beside the black–and–white TV on the shelf was a roll of different denominations of the naira. He stood up and moved closer to the shelf. There it was N50, N20 and N10 denominations in a small roll. The gleaming N20 polymer note caught his attention and, propelled by the still-fresh-in-the-memory ‘elede dindin’ image ravaging his thoughts; he peeled off a N20 note and quickly stuffed it into his short’s pocket.
“Maami, mo n b” he muttered to his mum as he quickly made for the entrance, headed for the junction. He was determined to live his fantasy. Walking quickly and animatedly, he made for the pork seller’s stall, his mouth already anticipating the taste and sweetness of the ‘elede dindin’. Few metres from the pork seller’s, on the opposite side of the road, he saw a small crowd gathered around a mat. Something told him to continue on his way, but the excitement oozing from the crowd attracted him like a magnet attracts metal. His curiosity took the better of him and he crossed to the other side to see things for himself. When he joined the crowd, he saw, displayed on a mat, various items of provisions from cheap biscuits to bottles of various kinds of juice and wine. At the head of the mat was a boy of about his age, his school mate as his uniform suggested, bouncing a beaded rubber band in his left palm. Just as he was about asking what the whole stuff was all about, the boy threw the beaded band and he exclaimed with joy when it landed on a pack of Jacob’s crackers. Then Ganiu understood: whatever item the beaded band landed and stayed upon was what you won.
“The items are not my priority now, if ‘elede dindin’ was on parade, maybe I’d play.” He told himself and made to leave the crowd. But as he made to leave, he saw the boy who had won earlier exchanged the biscuit for some naira notes and he understood better: you could collect the prize’s worth of naira in exchange for what you won.
‘That makes sense.’ He thought.
He moved nearer the conductor and told him he wanted to play.
“Where is your twenty naira?” came the hurried response. Ganiu gave him the twenty naira he had stolen and was given a beaded band. He waited on the queue and soon it was his turn.
He stood at the head of the mat, placed the band carefully on his palm and in the split second he took before the throw, he took an I–am–coming–for–you look at the ‘elede dindin’ across the road.
He threw the beaded band, aimed at the bottles of wine at the far end of the mat. “That will maximise my gain; I could even return the N20 and buy as many ‘elede dindin’ as possible.” He thought.
But it was not to be.
The beaded band hit the wine bottle by the side and bounced off, landing in the barren space between the bottle and a pack of juice. The crowd groaned, sympathetic to his ill luck.
Ganiu stood still. He watched his whole fantasy come right back at him with that nauseating feeling of defeat. Quickly, he was pushed aside by another eager boy who was next in line.
Head bowed and tears forming in his eyes; he retraced his steps back home but not without taking a defeated look at the pieces of ‘elede dindin’ elegantly displayed on the big brown tray.
He rued his covetousness and blamed himself for not listening to the voice of reason.
The police van raced wildly as if in a race with time itself. The constable driver saw him rather late. Ganiu was halfway across the road when he became conscious of the dark blue police van. Too shocked to move, he stood still in the middle of the road and waited for the inevitable.
When everything quieted down, the smell of alcohol on the constable’s breath was enough confirmation of his state of mind.

Lefellow

February 7, 2011 at 9:46 PM PST

Oooh. I love your use of words. Dialogue is so real. Your writing has rhythm. Gotta admit I'm still trying to visualize the scene. Color of building? Narrow corridor? etc. Just feedback. But I loooove your writing.