Tunnel Market

There were two main rules when in the tunnel market. First and foremost, keep your hands in your pockets and do not carry any handbags. The tunnel market infamously boasted the deftest gangs of pickpockets, coat charmers, bandits, swindlers, and vandals in all of Main Market, maybe even the state. Keep your handbags at home or in the car because these scoundrels could slip them off your hands without you noticing. Whatever belongings are necessary (wallets, car keys, phones), keep them in your pocket and make sure you can feel them in there at all times. Most people brought ghana–must–go bags, padlocked shut, to hold the things they’d buy there at the market. When you bought something new, you went into the stall or as far away from the path as possible, slipped the goods into the bag, and locked it shut again. Sometimes, people made it out of the market to find holes sliced into the bottom of their bags and all their goods missing; some wouldn’t have even noticed the change in weight. I knew of a woman whose bag was cut open, bled of its contents, filled with rocks, and then sewn shut. It was only when she had left the tunnel market and was back in her car that she noticed the crime. She hadn’t once dropped the bag from her shoulder. All this to say, none of these preventive measures are guaranteed to save you.

Whenever thieves were unlucky or lousy enough to get caught, they were burned at the square. This was always a matter of great entertainment. I remember once this boy had tried slipping a lady’s wedding ring clean off her finger but she’d caught him and started wailing, “Thief, thief oh, onye oshi, thief!” and people gathered around. The air was so tight. The reason why theft was so rampant in the tunnel market was because people were always packed in there like peas, so densely even a mosquito would not have enough space to bat its wings. Because of this, the thief could not run. People closed tightly around him like a fist as the lady held onto his tattered shirt, beating his chest with her palms. A bunch of people carried him out from the tunnel market to the square on the main street. Already the shoppers were curious, leaning with thirst.

The boy started screaming, “Please, please, I only want to feed my mother!” This was how it always went. They always wanted to feed someone, and the mob was always deaf to it. The mob loved the burnings because they saw it as retribution for all the times they had themselves been robbed and did not get justice. This boy kept screaming as the crowd whacked him with logs, bottles, stones, canes. Eventually, the men from Mechanic Village showed up with car tires. As the boy struggled, they tied his wrists and ankles, held his arms up, wore the tires on him like the beads of an abacus, doused them in petrol, and lit a match. The flames reached for the sky. He squealed, first a very shrill boyish scream—then the fire got his throat and aged his voice so he sounded like an old man shrieking. The smell of roasting flesh became lost amongst the many smells of the market’s wares. These burnings were some of the rare times the market stood still. Of course, the stillness was only an illusion. A burning was the best time for picking pockets and even as one scoundrel was being burned, others showed up to take advantage of his misfortune. I always strained to look for them whenever there was an execution. They were my version of your Tooth Fairy, my version of your Father Christmas. I watched the crowds, searching for a slow hand, for a wallet ejecting from a pocket, for goods trapdoored into a bag, but always found nothing. Only after, I saw the confused faces never too many, but just enough, patting pointlessly at their trousers and cursing at the ground.

The second rule of the tunnel market was easier to follow: no matter what you do, never pick anything up. If something fell from your hands, or from your basket, or from a market woman’s stack of goods, never bend down to pick it up. What is fallen is gone. They said that if you bent down to pick something up, an evil spirit would take you away. You would look up to find the market dark and empty. You would not be able to find your mom, your pa, or anyone else. I never heard stories of people who bent down because, as I say, this rule was easier to follow, so no one ever picked anything up. But, the claim that an evil spirit would take you away was corroborated by other stories I had heard. Like the one of a woman and her husband who were shopping at Main Market and stumbled into the tunnel. There, in the throng of people, they found a beggar. Blind, he was, and lame. He begged them for some money and they said they could not spare any. He kept begging and begging and eventually asked the woman for a kiss if she could give him nothing. The story goes that the woman agreed because she was a fool and felt bad for him. When she kissed him, she turned into a tuber of yam. Her husband and the other shoppers were outraged and demanded he turn her back, but the beggar didn’t budge. Finally, after being beaten for hours, he said that he would turn her back if the husband gave him a kiss, and when the husband did, he turned into a tuber of yam as well, and all three of them disappeared. They say the beggar was an evil spirit come to test the kindness of the market–goers.

Another one, I encountered personally. It must have been back before The Baby was born, when I was still the baby. My friend Zoba and I were in Mechanic Village because Baba wanted Zoba’s father (who was our driver) to fetch him a plumber. People were gathered around this tree they whispered housed an evil spirit. A man with a tractor was ramming into the tree, it was a really tall palm tree. Eventually the tree fell, and under the hovel of its root was a family of black cats with bright gold eyes. The cats just kept looking at us until a few women beat them to death with sticks. But then, when they took the cat corpses away, there were six white eggs there in the mud. The cats had laid the eggs, we said, so we cracked them all and threw them away. What I remember most was the smell. It smelled like smoke, but no one had burned the cats or the tree. 

That Sunday, my entire family went to Main Market after church because Mama wanted to make egusi soup for Baba’s older sister who had come from London to see The Baby just born. The car had six seats in three grids. Zoba’s father was driving, with Baba in the front next to him. Mama and Aunty were in the middle row, while Zoba and I were in the back.

“You and Zoba stay in the car with The Baby,” Mama ordered, peeling The Baby from Aunty’s stubborn hands with a pacifying smile and handing It to me. I nodded and passed It to Zoba. In those days, for some reason, The Baby always made me angry whenever I saw It, or they forced me to play with It, pose with It, hold It.

“What, no!” Aunty cried, “absolutely not, that’s preposterous, let us all go into the market.”

Mama laughed disarmingly. “See, sister, it’s not advisable to take children into Main Market. Sometimes something can happen.”

“Onyinye,” Aunty whined. She always called Mama by her name, although Mama, I’m sure, was older than her. Also, because of her London accent, she made it sound not like she was saying a name, Onyinye, but like she was slurring a reprimand, Oh Ninye. “You must do away with these village girl beliefs… what, oh come now, what is that face, have I offended you? Oh Ninye, I apologize. But do you really believe a ghost will come and pluck The Baby from your hands? Bubby,” she looked at Baba, “your wife thinks a ghost will come and take The Baby away, how absurd.” Aunty laughed like a frog croaks.

Mama looked at Baba, who kept his eyes outside the window. She chuckled, sweetened her voice the way she did when she asked Baba for something, “I just think it would be fa—”

“It’s illegal in Britain to leave a child in the car, you know? In all civilized countries, it is illegal to leave children in the car. Someone would call the police on you,” she said ‘police’ like she was saying ‘please.’ “Come on, let’s bring The Baby. It is a family vacation, after all; let me spend time with my nephews, hmm. This is basically a tourist site, no?” She winked at me and I made sure not to smile back.

“I don’t want to go into the market,” I tried in defense of Mama, but then she turned to me, her eyes red and whacked me across the face hard.

“If your elders say you’re going, then you’re going,” Mama yelled. I was stunned. I hated being slapped in front of Zoba but she turned her face away when I started crying.

In this manner, it was settled, we all went into the market. Another rule for the market was to never let go of your mother’s hand, no matter how quickly she walked, or how tightly she squeezed yours. You sped up to her pace, jumping puddles and potholes; and if you had a baby, you never let go of the baby. In addition to the pickpockets, and evil spirits, there were ritualists who kidnapped children for nefarious rituals. I heard a story once of a little girl whose own mother gave her to a ritualist for blood money. They gutted the baby, and the mother became wealthy.

We walked through the Main Market. My face was stiff with dried tears and a dull pain lingering where Mama had struck me. Zoba was in her father’s arms, her small hands around his neck. Baba walked beside them, chatting quietly. Mama and I were in the front, piercing through the crowd. Aunty held The Baby in the middle. First we got melon seeds for the egusi, then onions and peppers. Cow feet, goat meat, dried fish, sweet leaf, bitter leaf, and spinach. In Mama’s other hand, she held the ghana–must–go bag, dropping the supplies into it and snapping the padlock shut around the zips.

We could not find palm oil anywhere and had been searching aimlessly for a while when suddenly, Zoba was at my side.

“Tell your Ma that you’re hungry and want to go to mama put,” she whispered.

“No, she’s angry,” I replied.

“Please, Ebube, just tell her and see what she says, hmm?”

“No, she’ll slap me again,” I said.

“Please, now, please.”

“No, Zoba, go away.”

But after Ma had given up on getting palm oil that day, she suggested we go to the mama put stall. There were many different food stalls in the market but the best ones, everyone knew, were in the tunnel market.

At the end of Main Market, the tunnel market was squeezed into the space between two large rocks. All its stalls were in caves and caverns. The path was unevenly paved with stones, cracked tiles, plates and glasses, pebbles and seashells. Above, through a thin line where the rocks touched, we could see a sliver of the sky. And it always, always, smelled like cooking food and feces.

Mama bundled her skirt between her legs and plunged down the five steps to the tunnel path in one step. With one hand around my wrist, she lifted me over the steps. Turning around, I could see Main Market well. The stalls draped in curtains and tarpaulin, umbrellas screwed onto tables and, above, the makeshift rope bridges connecting the plaza shops in the complex.

 A thin dog with stringy fur withering at the doorstep of the mama put stall was being tormented by a gang of monkeys. They dangled a stewy chicken leg in front of its face, laughing in high, chirping howls while scratching at their heads and balls. The dog’s ribs were like the prongs of a rake, shivering to expand as it breathed. Like a paralyzed limb, its tongue lolled out onto the floor; whenever the monkeys dangled the chicken, it would flap like the fin of a beached fish.

The stall was carved into the side of a rock; the walls were the shiny opalesence of a pebble cracked open bearing slithering, green and blue auroras like veins so it felt like we were underwater, dining in an oyster shell. Rickety wooden benches wrapped around plastic tables. On our table, a peeling, fading sticker read, Yemi & Timothy. An image of two wedding rings connected the names. A family of women manned three large pots on open fire at the back of the cave. They all had children at their sides, fanning their flames and their faces, and babies tied to their backs. The cave was packed with people, twisting and straining, talking and laughing. Their body heat and the smoke coming from the firewood made it feel like a great gigantic beast was sitting on top of us. An old lady came and took our orders. Zoba started pulling at the fraying edge of the poster.

“So have you baptized The Baby yet, Onyinye? I forget…” Aunty began. They’d had this conversation before.

“No, not yet,” Mama responded, not looking up.

“Hmm, and why not?”

“Well, I just want to wait a while and see.”

“Ah, what’s there to see?”

Mama shrugged childishly. Aunty laughed mirthlessly, looking down at The Baby.

“My brother tells me you’re thinking of giving this one tribal marks too?”

“Yes, I am. I’m considering it,” Mama answered, glaring at Baba whose face was blank as ever.

“Onyinye, isn’t it enough that you mutilated Ebube, you want to mutilate The Baby too? Is it not enough?”

“There is no mutilation. It is a long tradition of my people to give tribal marks to members of the tribe. Long before your ‘civilization’, sister. A child does not get a name until it gets its tribal marks.”

“The tribe? They are not of your tribe, they are of Bubby’s tribe, isn’t that right, Bubby?” Baba only chuckled quietly. Encouraged, Aunty’s chest inflated, “and in our tribe, the tribe of the Lord Most High, a child gets his name when he is baptized.”

Mama turned away, towards the old lady. “Can we have water please? I beg!”

The waters came and only Mama gulped hers, opening her mouth and pouring the water down as if through a drain, condensation dripping down her palms. When the last of the water was gurgled, she palmed the bottle flat like an accordion and left it trembling like a tumbleweed on the plastic table. I thought about sipping a bottle to show support, but I was spiteful that back in the car when I’d tried to show support, she’d slapped me. Meanwhile, Aunty watched her expectantly.

“Anyway,” Mama began, “nothing is decided.” Aunty was about to respond when Baba chimed in that this was not the place to talk about this.

The food came in large stainless steel trays. Swallow wrapped in transparent cellophane and soup in plastic plates.

“You’re the one that wanted to come here,” Mama said to me after a while, “you better finish your food.” I wasn’t the one that wanted to come here. I never even asked. In response to my silence, Mama pushed the back of my head.

“Finish your food,” she gritted.

 It had been a while of trying to eat when Mama called the old lady over and asked, “what kind of palm oil did you use to make this soup, Ma?”

“Just normal,” replied the old lady.

“Where did you get it from?”

“There’s a store just…” the old lady pointed.

“Take me there, I beg,” Mama said, “I pay for your time.”

The old lady nodded.

“Daddy, wallet please,” Mama asked Baba. He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and gave it to her. The old lady led Mama out of the cave and into the bustle of the tunnel market. Baba Zoba excused himself to buy something for Zoba. Whenever we went out, he always went off secretly to buy her something, but never in front of us. Zoba went with him.

“Toilet please?” Baba asked and strolled for the toilet. Not wanting to be alone with Aunty and The Baby, I took a bowl of soup and went out front. I kicked the apes away, crouched in front of the withering dog and started feeding it pieces of meat from my soup. I dropped one in front of its nose and slowly, it opened its eyes and slurped it off the ground. Then I fed more and more chunks to it. When that one was done, I went back in and took Zoba’s plate. Aunty was on her phone, The Baby on its back on the plastic table.

I fed more chunks of meat to the dog. When it had licked both plates clean, I stacked them on each other but I tripped on crooked pavement and the plates fell. Bending to pick them, I froze, realizing what I had done. I believe I stayed in that position for a while, thinking that if I didn’t open my eyes the evil spirit would not take me. Sweat bubbled on my neck, my hair felt itchy and alive like a colony of ants.

Eventually, I opened my eyes and looked through my legs. There was Aunty at the other end of the cave entrance smoking a cigarette. I shot up and turned to her. The world did not go blank, I was safe from the evil spirits. Relief like cold soothing tongues over my sore bones. Then, realization. The Baby was not in Aunty’s hands.

“Aunty, where is The Baby?” I asked.

She coughed out some smoke. “Someone’s watching him while I smoke. What? What’s that face? Jesus, you and your mother with these superstitions.”

 I ran back to the table, squeezing through the crowd. Back then, the world felt to me like a cluttered kitchen table would to an ant. I elbowed, and strained through the swarm of people to our table. There was nothing there. The Baby was gone.

Olu Babs is a Nigerian-Canadian author of contemporary adult dramas. Based in Ottawa, born and raised in Nigeria, Babs combines the chilling, haunting narrative style of Canadian literature with the campfire story, mythological air of Nigerian folklore and word-of-mouth.