The aroma of the efo riro soup emanating from one of the stalls at the popular Iwo Road Motor Park found its way through my tiny nostrils. My mouth salivated in a swift response, and at that point, I felt hungry again, even though I had eaten before I left home.
It was the usual early morning rush at the park; several people were moving to and fro with their luggage, the majority of which was students returning to their respective schools. The screeching of vehicles competed with the voices of the hawkers of all manner of products.
A small ‘Ghana-must-go’ bag containing my school provisions sat on my head while my mother walked behind me with my suitcase in one hand, and the other, clutching my bucket and broom. The swiftness with which the crowd moved was alarming, as I had never witnessed anything of the sort. Frequently, it was common to hear cart pushers and load carriers screaming at people obstructing their path.
Finally, we got to the section of the park where we were to board a bus going to Ijebu-ode.
“James, wait for me here while I buy some fruit,” my mother instructed me.
“Yes, ma.”
“Wa wo ori ti oun s’oro!” (Come and see a talking head) A husky voice echoed some few metres away from me the moment after mother left.
Curiousity took a firm grip on me and I craned my neck but only caught a faint glimpse.
Looking down at my belongings, which leaned on one of the buses, I merely picked up the suitcase that my mother left in my care and quickly ran towards the scene of the display.
A skinny man with unkempt goatee beards, partly clad in a piece of red material from the waist region down to his knees, was waving his magical wand randomly in the air as he beckoned to passersby.
Cold shivers ran through my veins the moment I saw a live human head on a table adorned with a piece of white cloth. Shockingly, the gory creature kept rotating and smiling at its audience!
Goose pimples covered my skin. I shut my eyes tightly and by the time I finally opened them, my suitcase was gone!
My world went blank. I stood speechless with my mouth agape, wide enough to admit a swarm of flies. Like the confused child I was, I ran back to my erstwhile position only to meet a worried mother frowning at the remains of my belongings lying on the floor.
“Where have you been?” Her sharp rebuke stung me.
I felt a hard lump in my throat.
“Can’t you talk? And why did you leave your things carelessly by the side of the bus?” Her anger soared. “Don’t you know somebody could have picked…?’ She paused with her eyes stuck out like a frog.
“Where is your suitcase?”
The size of the hard lump in my throat gradually melted.
“I don’t know where… someone snatched…”
“You can’t blame the poor boy,” a cart pusher butt in.
“I quite agree with you,” one of the commuters added. “The little boy is naïve.”
Mother was at a loss for words. A handful of sympathisers thronged around us, and each of them added their voice to the mix. All spoke in my favour, without realising the lead role my negligence played in the act.
A few minutes later, we heard an unusual sound from a group of youth dragging a wounded man like a wild animal and chanting ole! Ole!!
“It seems they have caught the thief,” someone announced.
“That’s my suitcase with them,” I leapt for joy. “They have found it!”
