one day he came to open his doors to find a wrinkled sheet of paper crudely stuck to his doors with common white paste. What was this epistle? There, nearly hidden by the city, commune, and Ministry of Finance stamps were the few words that would change Albert’s life: Notice to Shop Owners—effective immediately the Central Market will be relocated to the old parade field; market space and licenses to be allocated on a first-come-first-serve basis to those vendors who present a written demand, proof of tax payment, and a deposit of two-hundred-thousand francs.
This was the knell of doom. The rumors have been flying about the Mayor’s intentions. It was now clear. All the impossible was soon seen as possible, as Albert confirmed the situation with adjacent shopkeepers. The current market plaza would be leveled and converted into a taxi park and bus station, the Mayor holding all the concessions for fuel and food for the businesses supplying the transporters and their travelers. What’s more, the Mayor had already sold all the licenses for the new market to his political cronies, family, folks from his village, and high-paying Asians. This meant that the only way the current businessmen could continue in the new market would be by sub-contracting with the new license holders, paying as much as ten times the price to be able to open a new stall; a sum most would not make in a year. The long and short of it was that they were all shut down.
The super market was no more and the super marketers were adrift. Each was pushed and pulled by the tides and winds of their own sphere; Albert feeling as though he was dashed on the rocks and pummeled by the surf. He managed to keep his stall open for another two weeks before the bulldozers came, liquidating as much of his lovely stock as possible before he removed his remaining inventory to his house, putting piles of bolts in the corner of his room and under the bed.
Once the market was razed, Albert felt as empty as the old market plaza. He had no clue of what to do now. He had little or no chance to get a license for a stall in the new a market. He could not go back to the village. The extended family’s resources were already over-subscribed. Furthermore, he owned his home and had children in school here in the city. He had no special skills and would be most reluctant to become someone’s Olivier—a simple store helper. How could he pay his bills, keep food on the table, and keep his kids in school?
When the new market had been built, Albert went to see if by any means he could find a way to have a stall. What he found was an aberrant structure in no way resembling a super market; rather a maze of prefabricated interlinked blockhouses with no personality and critically no ventilation. Furthermore, there was absolutely no chance for him to get a shop. Not only could he not get in, but all his former competitors also found themselves on the outside, the new market’s fabric sales completely under the thumbs of Asian businessmen who sold only cloth from their part of the world. There were no more rich batiks or waxes, no woven kente or colorful kangas; there was only blasé poor quality machine-made material that was not suitable for a curtain, let alone a fine set of clothes for Christmas.
Olivier was luckier. His experience, but lack of ambition, made him the perfect gofer for the new cloth sellers and he had quickly found a new employer. He had wanted to keep on living with Albert, but this was plainly impossible and he had had to find a room to rent somewhere in the quartier which almost made his balance sheet negative from the onset.
Albert’s wife was full of suggestions. What of this, what of that? Why not try this? Did you ever think of . . . ? While he did try to examine the opportunities and take the advice from his wife, or anyone else who was thoughtful enough to offer it, he found no open roads. He was at a dead end and did not know how to turn around.
If he had more money, he would have become a drunk; killing the pain with kaikai, arki, or any home distillate that would bring numbness to his troubled brain. If he had been able, he might have even killed himself; but this too was something he did not even know how to set about. So he worried and worried and worried.
Every day he walked about town looking for some possible chance, some way to keep his head above water. He was lost.
The pressure built and he continued his fruitless pursuit of another life. Then, one day as he walked home after yet another unsuccessful pilgrimage around town, he saw a flash of light, felt a snap like a branch breaking in the wind, and then felt nothing.
He awoke in a dirty bunk in a dirty ward in the Central Hospital, seeing his wife sitting on the dirty floor next to his foul bed. He tried to ask her what had happened but nothing seemed to work. He moved his lips, or at least thought he did, but there was no sound, or no sound he could hear. He was confused and afraid.
When is wife became aware of his wakefulness, she came close and moved her lips in his face but he heard nothing. She saw his big, fear-filled eyes and realized serious damage had been done. She tried to make gestures for him to calm down; to reassure him that she would do what needed to be done, although she had no idea of what could or should be done.
She tried valiantly to do something, anything. She ran to the Matron’s desk and begged someone to come and help. She grabbed nurses, doctors, and hospital aids by their sleeves and tried to drag them to her husband’s bedside. She screamed and she pleaded, but all she received were patronizing shrugs and a few indifferent words soliciting patience. Patience. She had been patient. She had waited for hours for someone to come to her husband. No one had come and no one came. Patience. There was no more patience. There was nothing.
Totally exhausted, she returned to the ward and slumped by the bed. What had happened with their life? What would become of their life?
Through some sort of distorted haze like gossamer cloth, Albert sensed more than saw his wife. Somehow he felt her love. And then he took her by the hand and led her into the new super market with rows and rows of fabric dealers selling the finest materials. He saw her dressed in a magnificent English wax, with her head-tie high and haughty. Life was good.
Afflictions of Man
His Mother had warned him: “don’t get sick”. As a small boy Henri had been worried about getting sick. Like many of the children in the village, he was slight of build and, when he saw pictures of European kids in the old newspapers wrapping the meat from the market, he felt like he was really so puny that the risk of illness was all too real. This is not to say he was a blooming hypochondriac, forever watching where he stepped, what he ate, or with whom he associated; his Aunt was well enough obsessed with these characteristics for the whole family. No, he was a regular child who climbed trees, swam in the creek, and chased lizards when he was not in school or the fields. But, like the cicada buzzing on a hot afternoon, his Mother’s words were a tiny but omnipresent hum in his mind.
As the years passed, the hum dulled to the point he did not notice it unless he really listened for it. Nothing had happened to amplify the warning. In spite of his sparse frame, he had shown himself to be resilient. He had overcome several bouts with malaria and diarrhea; weakened but more resistant afterward.
This was fortunate because, as his Mother had known so well, had he had serious health problems, the only option would have been the village dispensary or the local healer. The former was a disheveled building with a tiny cadre of disheveled staff; the building and the staff long forgotten by the provincial health authorities. The head nurse was a native from the village who had worked in the city decades ago, with who-knows-what training. She had one assistant and one cleaner, both with equal education and skill. If the clinic received any supplies, and it rarely did, these were bandages, antiseptic, and aspirin.
The village healer was attributed with several miraculous healings and was reputed to have an impressive knowledge of the use of local plants, herbs, and minerals to heal man’s afflictions, as well as more than a passing acquaintance with the darker side of traditional healing methods. Any hesitancy, however, in seeking treatment from this gentleman would not be due to skepticism
