Harvest Season

When I first went to Bamako, I didn't know the culture there differs greatly from what we have in Nigeria during the hot season. I was there not only for business reasons but to see this country players like Tigana came from. they never wanted to behave themselves for whatever reason they're killing themselves for were. 

It is actually my friend that deals in sugar and sugar products that put the idea of Bamako in my head. I mean, people I am better off by far are all getting Chinese and Dubai visas, why not me. But my friend has a better idea of business than me if the amount in the bank is a metric for measuring business acumen. 

I had wanted to go to Guangzhou where others head to, to buy things, I was like: "Bro, which one come be Bamako again. I want to head to Guangzhou and see what others are going there for and see that well?" 

" Follow me first this time around, you can always see Guangzhou afterwards. This is the season" the guy is someone that shut up his mouth and does his things silently while others go for aesthetics and fame and all those shiny object things, he goes to where the real juice flows from. 

I have heard that Bamako is one of a kind city, but I always believed that many of us are story realtors instead of tellers. So, from experience, I don't usually pay attention to most tales I hear. My way of calculating things is always to ask myself: "Is there life in existence there?" Once yes, I trust my immune system to survive any situation any human on earth can stand. If men, women and children exist there, I am heading there once there is an important reason to be there.   

So, when Bamako was flying here and there as a no-go area, I ditched Guangzhou for it. I believed more in my friend's tale of juice, the real one flowing seasonally inside there. And it is its season. It was so hot, so dry that a little breeze will blew a tipper of sand here and there and half of the Bamako population is blind. These kinds of tales are in the class of their own. French is the problem I anticipated and I need not to have worried about that for almost everyone who is inside there speaks cut and joined english. This kind of realization always surprises me. Why do all these French colonies speak cut and joined English but almost all the English colonies don't know "away from the way" in french? Something pompous I believed was left alongside independence by the British but anyway, its issue for another day.

I was getting ready for the ticket and the airport when my friend said forget the airport and plane, it's an all road trip to Bamako. I was speechless and was forced to ask if it has something to do with pay, phobias or something? 

     "Haba Mavin, why would I not afford air travel to Bamako if that is my headache. Its where the experience and knowledge comes from" 

 " What kind of experience is that?" I was still surprised. "Are you one of those that have air travel phobias? I don't understand the rationale" I said.

" worry a lot, you will not anymore after this journey. Just follow me this once"

I decided to my dismay to follow him this once as he said. He had been at it for long, hauling sugar cane sticks and heavy sacks of sugar he divides into smaller bags and almost doubles the price he buys back home and all the overhead expenses that comes with it.

We took a bus to Ghana from there to Ivory Coast, from there to Senegal and I couldn't believe that all these French countries have a kind of air that blows in their countries. The women and men can drink. We were in one nightclub in Ivory and what we saw there surprised me. Those people can drink. I heard that the government subsidies alcohol and agricultural products and that is the reason the citizens don't care who stays in power for thirty years or for life as long as booze and food are affordable. 

What I saw in Ivory Coast, I saw in Ivory Coast, I saw in Senegal, I saw in Togo. Then we entered Bamako around 11:35 am and the first thing I saw was that there were many brooms walking up and down with humans. Everywhere you look, you will see a walking broom. Young and old were hauling the thing around like their second body. That surprised me. When we got to the park, the traders that rushed us to buy their wares of brooms and hood in many sizes, colors and  weights were many, my friend bought two each and handed over one set to me. 

      "What are these ones for?" I asked with genuine concern in my voice.

" You have only five minutes from now to have first hand experience of that question, so seeing is believing, no need to answer your questions and dent your experience" was all I got from him.

We hurried to a restaurant to eat, on entering there, brooms were sitting with every human in that restaurant. We ordered food and positioned ourselves in a window. According to my friend John, it's for my education, ultimate experience. Within a minute of sitting down, I started hearing a buzzing sound. Initially, I didn't get it when the restaurant keeper was closing in everywhere, doors and windows but then I did. Like locusts, the flies that number about hundreds of thousands materialized from nowhere and darkened the sky penetrating close windows and doors and people inside the restaurant were smacking nonchalantly as if nothing extraordinary were happening. I was first watching the drama unfold speechlessly when I became the center of attention to all in the restaurant while the flies were at the center of my concentration. Their hands and mouths were moving in sync expertly nonstop as if controlled mechanically. 

Kpalam!, kpalam!! Kpalam!!!  Like a choreographed orchestra at work. I abandoned my half eaten food and went to work of killing flies many lay dead on the ground as if chemical was applied. 

      " I think you will need a takeaway" My friend's voice jostled me back to reality. I turned, eyeing him and all the fries on the ground near us and none on the table.

    "What is happening here?"

"Sugar season, the trucks from village plantations always brings millions with them each harvest season. Those outside will soon follow the sugar carrying trucks to their warehouses, then, we can go to our buyers"

I was still speechless staring at him as the sounds of landing brooms; kpalam! Kpalam!! Kpalam!!! were erupting all around us like bangers exploding nonstop. 

As we marched outside heading to the park where we will enter the bus to the factory, little crowds were once again outside marching here and there, their numbers increasing as were sounds receds. As we bent a corner, I was nudged seriously by a hooded guy that stopped as he pulled down his hood, we, still in ours. I shouted: "What a small world!" it's a classmate I saw last twenty-something years ago. He lives in Bamako with his family. After familiarization, we exchanged contact addresses as he invited us to his house whenever we were through. We went each other's way, our hoods back on and the brooms dangling from our shoulders.