Elvis’s attention was captured by a bookseller in a stall to the left of the cart. The bookseller was a short man, with a bald patch and round stomach that made Elvis think of Friar Tuck from Robin Hood. He smiled. Bookseller Tuck, as Elvis mentally christened him, was calling out to passersby: “Come and buy de original Onitsha Market pamphlet! Leave all dat imported nonsense and buy de books written by our people for de people. We get plenty. Three for five naira!”
Elvis drew closer. A small crowd was gathering, and some were already buying the pamphlets. The bookseller’s assistant, a slight boy, looked harried as he tried to keep an eye on the inventory and operate the cash register. These pamphlets, written between 1910 and 1970, were produced on small presses in the eastern market town of Onitsha, hence their name. They were the Nigerian equivalent of dime drugstore pulp fiction crossed with pulp pop self-help books. They were morality tales with their subject matter and tone translated straight out of the oral culture. There were titles like Rosemary and the Taxi Driver; Money — Hard to Get but Easy to Spend; Drunkards Believe Bar As Heaven; Saturday Night Dissapointment; The Life Story and Death of John Kennedy and How to Write Famous Love Letters, Love Stories and Make Friend with Girls. The covers mirrored American pulp fiction with luscious, full-breasted Sophia Loren look-alike white women. Elvis had read a lot of them, though he wouldn’t admit it publicly. These books were considered to be low-class trash, but they sold in the thousands.
“For dose of you whom are romantic, dere is Mabel De Sweet Honey Dat Poured Away and How to Avoid Corner Corner Love and Win Good Love from Girls,” Bookseller Tuck called. Spotting Elvis holding the books he had bought from the secondhand vendor, Bookseller Tuck turned to him.
“You, sir, you look like educated man. Here, try dis one,” he said, passing Elvis a book.
Turning it over, Elvis looked at the title: Beware of Harlots and Many Friends. Smiling, Elvis flicked it open at random, stopping at “24 Charges Against Harlots.” He scanned them quickly, jumping numbers.
1. The harlots live dirty and dangerous lives.
2. They corrupt young men, make them live immoral lives and feed them chronic disease …
4. Almost all that had married left their husbands without sufficient reasons, and the unmarried ones have refused to marry in preference to harlotism …
11. No single harlot is healthy in this world, that is why they are smelling.
12. Harlots drink beer too much and smoke cigarettes in like manners, and no single harlot is beautiful, that is why they always paint themselves with beauty make up’s and yet you can easily know them. Wash a pig, comb a pig, dress a pig, it must be a pig.
Elvis shuddered and closed the book and handed it back, opting instead for Mabel the Sweet Honey That Poured Away. Paying for the book, he hid it between the Dostoyevsky and the Baldwin and headed deeper into the market.
He passed the smell of trapped antelopes, and of savannahs coming from the basket and rope weavers. The melee of buyers and sellers haggling loudly, trading insults and greetings and occasionally achieving a trade, was thick around him.
As he made a turn and entered the imported side, he could see behind the market, sprawling away into the swamp, a rubbish dump: a steaming compost of vegetables, broken furniture, jute sacking, discarded hemp ropes, glass bottles, plastic bags, tins; the usual. And perched on top, cawing awfully, hunched like balding old men, were vultures.
He stopped in different shops, feeling the fabric for something that was stylish yet promised to be cool, ignoring the rude calls of the traders.
“If you dey buy, buy — if not, move on!”
“Hey, dis man, why you are rubbing my cloth like dat? Dis is not towel, it is fine Italian silk. Move away!”
Haggling was not his strongest suit, but he did his best when he saw a nice black shirt-and-pants combo that would be perfect.
“How much?” he asked.
“For what?” the trader replied, uninterested.
“For this,” Elvis said, pointing.
“Is not for sale.”
“Then why is it hanging here?”
“Ah, see dis man O?! Is dis your shop?”
As Elvis made to move off, the trader stopped him with a hand on his arm.
“Where you dey go?”
“You said the item is not for sale, so I am going.”
“You mean dis one? Haba, I thought you meant de oder. Come, come, I will give you special price.”
“No.”
“Are you not my customer? Okay, pay fifty naira.”
“Fifty? Is it made of gold? I can’t pay more than ten.”
“Ah! Is dis pricing or daylight robbery? Even de person who make it does not sell for ten. Den me I have overhead, eh. Okay, pay forty.”
“Twenty.”
“Thirty, last price.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Thirty.”
“Twenty-five.”
“No.”
“Okay,” Elvis said walking off.
Again the trader pulled him back. He was already wrapping the clothes, a smile on his face.
“You dis oga, you can haggle pass Egyptians O!” he said as he folded the twenty-five naira into his pocket and handed Elvis the wrapped clothes.
Moving on, Elvis soon spotted a nice pair of shoes to go with the clothes and bought those. He then made his way back to the open-air stalls and bought some groceries for the house. Satisfied, he headed off to the bus stop and caught the bus home, stopping at Madam Caro’s for a beer.
The King of the Beggars counted the money again. The amount had not changed from his last count: one hundred naira.
“Where from dis money, eh, Elvis? Where from?”
“Do you not want the money?” Elvis asked, and reached for the pile.
The King swatted his hand away.
“Easy. I just ask where it is from.”
“None of your business, but don’t worry. No one died for it.”
Elvis lit a cigarette, drawing the harsh, cheap tobacco deep before exhaling.
“Dat cigarette you are smoking like you are drinking water will kill you. You just quench one five minutes ago,” the King complained. He put the money away.
“Please don’t nag.”
“Respect my age, eh, Elvis? Respect my age,” the King said.
“I’m sorry,” Elvis muttered, stamping out the cigarette.
“So tell me where dis money from.”
“I told you, Redemption and I have a job.”
“Dat your friend Redemption, he appear dishonest to me,” the King warned.
“No more than you are.”
The comment, meant as a barb, only made Caesar throw his head back and laugh heartily. “Den you must be criminal mastermind if we are all your friend,” he said.
In spite of his growing irritation, Elvis laughed.