Maria

1997

Akwa oche was indeed reigning. It seemed to Maria that every other store on Breadfruit Street, the main vein of Balogun market’s ready-made clothes section, had assorted styles of the velvet-like material on display and for sale. And unbidden, as she went from store to store, in the din of loud voices and music blaring from pulsing speakers, the song played in her head, on a loop.

Ebaino, Chichi go buy your own,
apoche na him dey reign.

The market was busier than usual, packed with holiday shoppers—harried men and women walking with focused determination, eyes sliding from stall to stall, one hand gripping bags against crafty thieves. Maria was dressed in a loose T-shirt, form-fitting leggings, and comfortable shoes —appropriate for the task ahead of her. Christmas shopping for clothes and shoes for her family. Hand-cut lace for her and her husband, and matching dresses and shoes for her twin daughters.

It was getting hotter as the sun rose high in the sky, and the crowds trapped heat between bodies. Maria could not walk straight without slanting to let others pass, lest shoulders kissed shoulders. Traders reached for her, calling out, convinced they had what she needed or could make her need what they had.

She paused at a corner where the crowed thinned, beside a woman selling drinks from a red cooler filled with ice block. She bought a bottle of Coke and took a large gulp, the cool delicious liquid bringing instant relief from the oppressive heat. To her left was a narrow street packed with multistorey shops with clothes hanging from balconies like multicolored curtains. It was too much color. She felt an unease in her stomach and a heaviness in her head – a sure sign she was getting overwhelmed. She closed her eyes and took in a deep, mildly offensive breath of market air. When she opened them, she drank again.

A flash of colour caught her eye.

At the very end of the street to her left was a narrow shop with a bright dress hanging prominently by the entrance. She turned into the street and walked toward it, weaving through people, until she stood in front of the shop. There was no visible salesperson. She reached out and touched the dress. The material was smooth, cool beneath her fingers.

“Hello?” she called into the shop. At first, there was no response. Then came a rustling, and a woman emerged hurriedly from the depths.

“Aunty, good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” Maria replied. She pointed to the dress. “Do you have this in size fourteen?”

“Yes,” the woman said promptly. “I have it inside. Come, ma.” Maria hesitated. She had not come to the market for a dress. Still, she touched it again. Chiffon. Soft.

“Come inside and try it on,” the woman urged. Maria glanced into the store. There was no one else. She followed the woman into the shop, leaving the sun for the close, cloth-heavy air inside. The woman disappeared briefly and returned with the dress in the requested size.

“Here, ma.” She gestured to a small changing area partitioned by a wrapper, with a narrow floor-length mirror propped against the wall. Maria placed her bag on the floor and pulled off her T-shirt. She slipped into the dress. It fit almost perfectly. The hem brushed her jean-clad knees, though the waist as a little tight. She had time to lose a few kilos before Christmas.

“How is it, aunty?”

Maria stepped out. “It’s fine,” she said evenly, careful not to betray interest. “It matches your colour well,” the woman said. “You must wear this for Christmas.”

“How much?” Maria asked.

“Three thousand naira.”

“Three thousand?”

“Yes, aunty. This is Turkish chiffon. No design like it anywhere.” They bargained until Maria agreed to pay two thousand. She turned back toward the changing area to put on her T-shirt. It was not there. Her bag sat on the floor. Beside it was her half-drunk bottle of Coke but no T-shirt.

“Is my shirt there?” she asked.

“No, aunty. You wore it inside.” Maria stood still. She checked the small space again, then opened her bag, wondering if she had absent-mindedly stuffed it inside. Nothing.

“Please,” she called, “help me check. It’s not here.”

There was no response.

She stepped fully out of the changing area. The shop was empty. “Hello?” she called.

Nothing.

She re-entered the changing space and checked every corner carefully, then her bag again. Still nothing. Unease crept up her spine. She was still wearing the dress.

“Hello?” she called again, louder now, walking toward the back of the shop. It ended abruptly. There was nowhere else to go. She turned and walked toward the entrance, toward the noise and light of the market, fully expecting someone to stop her for leaving without paying. No one did.

Outside, she stepped toward the neighboring stall where two middle-aged men were attending to a short woman and two equally short children.

“Uncle, please—the aunty in this shop. I can’t find her.”

One man looked up impatiently. “Ehn?”

“The aunty in this shop,” Maria said, pointing towards the stall she just left. “Do you know—”

“Which shop?” the man asked. Maria turned to point properly.

There was nothing there. No shop. No doorway. Only a dead end cluttered with litter and a small pile of junk.

She froze.

“Madam?” a voice called. “Yes?” She turned to the man, who now looked concerned. “Is everything okay?”

“There was a shop here,” she said faintly. “There was a shop here.” She touched the dress she was wearing. The man looked at his partner, who had stopped attending to the customers, who were also now looking at Maria curiously.

“Ma,” the man said carefully, as though speaking to someone hard of hearing or thinking, “I don dey here for eight years. No shop dey there. This our shop is the last one. If you jump that fence, you go land for market garage.”

The market noise rushed back around her. This was impossible. She had left home wearing an RCCG Holy Ghost Congress T-shirt. Now she wore a dress she did not own and had not paid for. In the background, the cacophony of noise continued unabated. No one was paying attention to a woman standing in front of a clothes store, reeling over things that had just happened but had not happened.

She turned, suddenly frightened and walked back to her car — Christmas shopping abandoned — her only thought to get home and tell her husband so they could figure this out, because she did not understand it and could not find her bearings inside it.

When she reached her car, she sat for a moment before driving, hands steady, mind floating. “Blood of Jesus,” she whispered over and over. She had heard stories—of markets, of spirits, of people buying things that disappeared. Traders walking on their heads.

When she reached her street in Ayobo, she slowed. Parked in front of her building was her car. Maria stared through the windshield. Her hands were still on the steering. The engine was still running. And in front of her, was her car.

She parked behind it and stepped out, heart pounding. The parked car was dusty, with the familiar rust near the plate number and a small dent by the headlight. She touched it. It was real.

She ran to her flat, the first one on the first floor, and tugged on the locked door. Her keys were in her bag, still in the car. She ran back to retrieve them.

As she returned, the door opened and her daughters stepped out. Then her husband, and finally, a woman emerged from the flat, wearing an RCCG T-shirt and jeans, saying something to Maria’s family.

A woman who was Maria. Maria screamed.