The Loss Of a Friendship
But as time went on, I got to know she meant it every time she would say “Ore mi!.” I was her friend.
“See my friend o.” Ruka would call out on sighting me. In the beginning, I thought she was just being a ‘sharp’ market woman, because there were at least 5 other people selling the exact vegetables she sold a few feet from her. So expectedly competition was intense.
But as time went on, I got to know she meant it every time she yelled “Ore mi”. I was her friend. I would leave her ‘stall’ light-hearted every time.
The women sit on stools and use rickety tables to display the food items they sell by the roadside. By midday, this makeshift arrangement becomes a source of traffic congestion. It slowly builds up to familiar chaos as people walking and driving keep stopping to buy food items.
Ruka is a petite and dark-skinned woman, perhaps in her twenties like I was then. She already lost a front tooth in 2010 when I first met her, but this didn’t stop her from smiling at customers. I admired her confidence and ability to laugh at herself in a way only she can.
The people who trade from this roadside pay daily rental to the local government authorities to secure a spot and the government does nothing for them in return except of course ensuring this roadside remains available for street traders. Ruka is one of the lucky few with an old one-storey building casting shadows on her chair and table, hence partially sheltering her from the harsh rays of the sun.
Usually, I will buy veggies from her, and we would make small talk. One day she saw me talking to her three young daughters, all under the age of 5 and after observing us for a while said in her Broken English ‘I give birth to a boy before, but him die’ she sounded somewhat apologetic. This was her answer to what she assumed was my silent question about her all-girl squad. Like most Nigerians, she thought I would want to know why she didn’t have a boy child( as if it was my business). ‘My mother bore 7 daughters’ I said to her by way of encouragement.
I don’t think she heard me because she continued, ‘I want boy o, pray for me o, make my next pikin be boy’. And you sef go born boy’ she said, pointing to my flat belly.
I hadn’t told her I was pregnant, so I looked in mock shock at her. She grinned.”I know say you dey belle” (I know you are pregnant) I was barely 8 weeks and not showing at all so I was surprised she knew.
Sometime later, I was going around asking people how to prepare Efo–riro soup, my husband is Yoruba and I am Igbo. Hence, Efo soup is not native to me. Two years prior I had attended a party at Ijebu–ode and the efo-riro served as delicious… the vegetables green and firm to the taste. It was Ruka that told me I could include washed bitter leaf not just the Efo- Tete, for crisper vegetables.
She equally advised me to soak the vegetable in scalding water first, as opposed to merely throwing it into the pot. Her recommendations worked. I went back to the market to tell Ruka about her recipe’s success and she beamed with pride, ‘I know say you go cook am well.’
In 2014 she married for the third time and gave birth to twins boys, she was thrilled ‘see oh my sister help me thank God, two boys.’
Some times for months on end she would disappear and her mum or sister will continue to trade on her spot by the road. I wouldn't prod too much, but she told me her marriage hit the rocks because ‘ hmm, this my husband dey do juju, I no wan die’
She was very protective of our friendship and wouldn’t let the other who sold around her talk to me. This attention made me popular, I was Ruka’s ‘friend’, elevated from a customer.
Anytime I gave her a gift, she would find a way to return the favour. She sees herself as a businesswoman, not a beggar. Many time she would give me Iru and refuse to collect money.
A few years ago she included Ponmo (roasted cowhide) in her food items in stock, and I celebrated by buying more than I needed and telling my neighbours about Ruka’s new ‘Ponmo’ product.
One day in June 2020, in the middle of a pandemic, the last thing I expected from a crowded roadside market was an unexpected tight hug. Instinctively, I leapt in shock. It was Ruka, but I didn’t recognize her, because the person had a toothless grin and bright glittery eyeshadow and her bright green Gele(head tie) and yellow Ankara dress. Apart from being unrecognizable in her stylish clothes, social distance was on my mind.
I think she saw I didn’t know what to make of the hug, so she let me go. And before I could explain that I had no problem with a hug she was gone with the other women who were also dressed in the garish green and yellow asoebi. I glimpsed her hurt, as she ran to catch up with her friends I presume they will laugh and say ‘you see your sisi friend doesn’t want you to touch her.’
The next time I saw Ruka, she gave me an icy stare and hissed loudly as she looked away.
