Vouchered

Whenever Baba Aminu arrives at my doorstep, I know he has something new to sell. He is the kind of peddler whose hands carry no goods, yet the corners of his tongue bulge. I know him as a lifelong seller. I have seen him by the roadside, before Mama Ngozi’s shop, his pitch wrestling to stay above the traffic. For an elder like him, one would expect his customers to belong to his age grade, yet people my age gather around his stall, damning his wares, pricing his wares, buying his wares. How would they not, when the tongue they are up against can disguise itself as whatever remedy the fever demands? One by one, the other traders fold their tables, their signboards embracing dust, their customers wandering in search of promising stores. Yet Baba Aminu returns. His tongue shows no fear of being torn from its lair. They have restocked his shop again, promised him a good evening, and he is generous with his recipes. Come next election, his patrons will flood the streets. Never mind the quality of the goods; familiarity in itself is a kind of flavour. A hand that has fed them before is no stranger. What can I say to eyes that have grown accustomed to vouchers smirking from their pockets?