A Nose for Money

By B. Nyamnjoh

Set in the fictional and reluctantly bilingual land of Mimbo in contemporary Africa, this story revolves around the tragedy of the haunting Prosp?re, a semi-literate Mimbolander who is searching for the finer things in life. The novel presents a graphic picture of the frustrations engendered by a society that values wealth over love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: East African Educational Publishers
• Release date: Jun 15, 2006
• ISBN: 9789956790579

B. Nyamnjoh

Lumkap B. Angwafo III is studying for a medical degree at the American University of Antigua College of Medicine, resides in Houston, Texas, USA.

Book preview

A Nose For Money

Francis B. Nyamnjoh

Publisher:

Langaa RPCIG

Langaa Research & Publishing Common Initiative Group

P.O. Box 902 Mankon

Bamenda

North West Region

Cameroon

[e-mail]

www.langaa-rpcig.net

Distributed in and outside N. America by African Books Collective

[e-mail]

www.africanbookcollective.com

ISBN: 9956-728-40-3

© Francis B. Nyamnjoh 2013

DISCLAIMER

All views expressed in this publication are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of Langaa RPCIG.

Contents

PART I

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

PART II

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

Part I

1

Prospère pulled to a stop after crossing the long Donaperim Bridge over River Mourim. The roads were very bad at this time of the year, and he knew it was no use trying to drive to Victoria without boots and a spade, if it was going to rain along the way. The problems of driving long distances during the rainy season were many; the roads were muddy and slippery, and drivers were often forced to dig, and to ask others to help pull and push their vehicles. It was always a nightmare, particularly for truckers like him. He got out of the lorry and took a prolonged look at the skies. The rain clouds were circling the sun, as the heavens rumbled like a starving stomach. He knew straightaway that he had been wrong to forecast a bright afternoon with clear blue skies. There was every sign of an impending downpour. He wanted to take no chances, so he decided to return home for his rain boots and a spade. As he drove back to his house in the heart of the city, he blamed himself for not heeding Rose’s warning in the first place. He wouldn’t be driving back now had he listened to his wife’s youthful intuition. I’ll pay greater attention to what she says next time, he muttered.

It was noon and the traffic was heavy as usual. The sound of impatient hooting filled the air as civil servants hurried home for their midday break. Cars jostled one another as they each tried to take advantage of little openings here and there, now and again, on the intensely pot-holed roads. Prospère was angry and impatient with the crawling traffic. Old battered cabs in yellow claimed both the roads and the sidewalks, stopping and starting with no regard for other vehicles. In connivance with their obstructions were policemen, stopping them not to address such irregular driving but to bore their way into the day’s earnings. There was nothing he hated so much as having to wait when he had something pressing to do, and getting back home to Rose, who spent so much time alone, was pressing enough. He fumed at the cab driver and policeman exchanging papers and money in front of him. He worked hard for his money, and didn’t like the thought of passing it over to law enforcement agents for nothing other than the right to go home.

More than once he gambled with a tum into a side street, but the situation was never any better, and he only cursed his impatience or blamed others the more. Everywhere the traffic was thicker than the number of trees in the rubber plantation of the Mimboland Development Corporation of Kotim, and slower than a funeral procession. The fact that seven out of every ten drivers on the road at that time knew next to nothing about the Highway Code, only made matters worse. Driving in this car-infested pot-holed city of Sawang wasn’t fun even at the best of times. At least not for him.

This was his fifth month working for the Mimboland Brewery Company (MBC) as delivery driver. The company had placed him in charge of Victoria and other major towns in West Mimboland, where he delivered beer three times a week. Though he was a lorry driver by profession, Prospère wasn’t particularly fond of his job as beer distributor. It kept him away from his precious Rose for longer than he would have liked. No man likes to stay away from the woman he has just married, not when she happens to be a beautiful twenty-year old, and from an area like Poumang where the bride price is unusually expensive. He had asked, schemed and even tried to bribe to be allowed to do his distributions in and around the city of Sawang, but all to no avail. In theory, Prospère was free at weekends, but in practice, distribution was hardly ever over in time for a weekend with just his Rose.

Rose didn’t like the nature of his job either, and had complained about it many times. But there was really nothing they could do. Life in the city was difficult, and for most of the time, people could barely make ends meet. After talking over the matter with her, Prospère had agreed to look for a new job. But jobs were hard to come by, and the offers weren’t always attractive. Prospère hadn’t had the privilege of a good education; his skills were all self-made and what resources he had, he had made for himself. He understood his wife’s concern. It wasn’t easy for a newly married woman to spend her days and nights on her own while her husband was away busy distributing drunkenness, as she would complain softly but firmly. The sooner something happened to allow them to see more of each other, the better.

Prospère remembered how he had raced into the compound in Poumang, panting like a tired dog, desperate for refuge. Rose, who was the only adult home at the time, had offered him sanctuary under her mother’s bed. Although his chasers didn’t come that far in the end, he was delighted to have met Rose. Even in his panic, he had remarked on her beauty, which stood out like a giant ebony tree in a valley of shrubs. Sometime after the turmoil had subsided for a while, he returned with a gift for Rose, and was exhilarated to hear her say she liked him too. Their decision to marry had been swift, and together they had worked to overcome the rigorous scrutiny of her demanding parents. Being an orphan, he had paid the bride price single-handedly, much to the admiration of her parents - Michel and Yvette - whose initial reluctance had been motivated by his lack of family. Had they forgotten the saying that God chases off flies from the skin of the cow that has lost its tail? Religious as they were, hadn’t they read the section of the Bible that thanks God for providing for the birds of the skies? In any case, Prospère had been pleased to prove them wrong.

He had married her because of her beauty, and for the gentle care she had given him in her home village when he found himself tired and on the run, mistaken for a rebel by soldiers of the state. He had paid very dearly for her too, but he didn’t regret doing so, because he believed he had had good value for his money. The only thing that he regretted, however, was the fact that he wasn’t seeing as much of his Rose as he would have liked. Proof of this, he thought, was the fact that though they had known each other now for five months, Rose had not yet conceived. What else could this mean apart from that he wasn’t always around at the right times? Immaculate conceptions were just not possible these days. He had to be around and prove himself. Getting the timing right, that’s what he wasn’t doing enough of, he thought.

Prospère was getting nearer home. He had taken over an hour just to cover three kilometres. Incredibly slow! Without the heavy traffic and in spite of the bad roads, the same distance between the Donaperim Bridge and the Fontaine de L’Indépendance Modérée at the bustling city centre would have been covered in ten minutes or less the fact that his vehicle was long and heavy, restrained his flexibility on the road. The sooner something is done to stop people importing secondhand cars from Europe, the better, he thought, jealous. Keep Europe clean; he had heard some critics refer to secondhand cars, especially those that European consumers were dying to dump, as the panting lot with gasping engines and fuming exhaust pipes. On second thoughts, he laughed at his own logic. It was ridiculous of him to think of limiting car ownership as a solution to traffic congestion. Who wouldn’t think of importing a keep-Europe-clean at the slightest windfall? he wondered, appalled by his simplistic outlook at first, and knowing he, too, would like a European car. "The only solution people can accept is to build new and better roads, or at least, to free existing ones of potholes,’ concluded more reasonably, and rejoined the reckless, hooting party.

The hawkers who roamed the streets in an effort to make a living out of little or nothing further compounded the problem of driving in Sawang. Every minute of every working day, child wandered up and down the streets with head loads of puffballs, akara beans, koki corn, bread and other fast foods. Others, mostly youngsters, dressed in plumbing gear, electrical outfits, plastic car bags and other handy household utilities, roamed the streets like zombies or scarecrows, creating desire and harassing indifference. Early in the morning, at lunchtime and in the evening, women of all ages and sizes struggled through the streets with wheelbarrows full of hot food, shouting out to every passer-by to stop and fill their stomachs before continuing with the day’s hardships. Also roaming the streets were dubious young men of strong build, eager to earn a living from anything, including manipulation and manoeuvring. This group of hawkers served the less well-off urbanites - those placed on hold by modernity and its extravagant promises, with a devalued or secondhand but essential range of consumer-items made in the West, Taiwan or the neighbouring Republic of Kuti, but often too costly to obtain directly from the shops. They offered the poor, the opportunity to simulate the ways of the rich, or simply to hang on and hope.

It was quite true, it crossed Prospère’s mind as he watched groups of hawkers – ‘sauveteurs’ as they were called – display wristwatches, gold and silver plated chains, bracelets, earrings, glasses, balms and tablets for a range of ailments, tapes of famous Western pop-stars, fake whiskies, sun-beaten wines and brandies and other items along the side of the streets. He suddenly thought the thousands of people in Sawang and thereabouts who would be without any of these items, were it not for the Good Samaritan services of these daring young men. They risked their lives daily stealing from ships at the seaport, shoplifting in supermarkets, burgling the rich, or making risky boat-journeys to and from the Republic of Kuti, the land of fakes. He personally bought from them, and only went to the shops (which were not for the likes of him in any case) when the item he sought was unavailable from these messiahs of the streets. To him, they were the only hope for betterment, or sometimes even survival, for the downtrodden or those rejected by the city’s promises. It would be unwary and foolhardy for any politician, no matter how drunk with power, to think of chasing off hawkers as a solution to Sawang’s congested streets. That, he thought, would be a sure excuse for another massive strike; one much bloodier than the one that some years back, in the late 1940s or thereabouts, had seriously threatened French colonialism, and made a state enemy of Um, its engineer. What Prospère didn’t know was that the present government of Mimboland had decided never to touch the hawkers for another reason entirely. They saw hawking as a useful political weapon, not only because the hawkers provided for the poor of the city, but also and especially because their daily efforts to get by distracted and preoccupied the rich with matters of personal security. In this way, neither the poor nor the rich ever got round to giving the government any real headaches.

Prospère spotted the tall slim man from whom he had tried without success the day before to buy some loincloths of magnificent design and embroidery. The man was carrying on a bamboo the same load of assorted cloth, his kola nut-stained fangs exposed and beyond the grip of his rather undersized lips. Nearby was a boisterous group of hawkers; he could see the man – from Warzone or north Mimboland, if the way the man spoke French was anything to go by – was trying to stand apart from them. Like yesterday, Prospère wondered where this man ‘acquired’ such beautiful cloths, which according to some women, even established high-class dealers R.M. Queen rarely stocked. The cloth was said to come all way from Helmond in Holland, base to a renowned and classy manufacturer who had excelled at adopting and adapting traditional Indonesian and African fabrics. But how off-putting the retail prices were! He wanted me to pay with my teeth! Prospère exclaimed, recalling the haggles of the day before.

"Venez me tromper ici. Je ne connais pas bien l’argent. Venez me tromper, ma soeur, mon frère. Je donne tout pour rien. Buy one take two, buy one take two..." This was the salesmanship that had caught Prospère’s attention, the hawker inviting potential buyers to come and cheat him because he wasn’t very good with money. But Prospère soon realised the man was more expensive than a high street shop. Once in a while, one comes across hawkers of this calibre who steal from the rich and sell to the poor at prices that might yet cut the throats of the rich.

Ça M’sier, c’est Mon-Mari-Est-Capable, the man tried attract Prospère by holding out a cloth considered to be very expensive, thus the nickname, My-Husband-Is-Well-To-Do. Prospère tried to visualise Rose boastfully attired in this cloth harvesting envy from other women and challenging other men to better than her man.

Prospère remembered taking a careful look at the cloth. Even without being an expert or a professional amateur like most women are, he could tell it was high quality cloth.

C’est combien, mon ami? he asked for the price. If this was really buy-one-take-two as the man claimed, he might as well take some home for his own dear Rose. She was badly in need dresses, and he had ignored her unimpressive wardrobe for far too long. Even as a poor man you can’t expect your wife not complain or feel jealous of women with well-to-do husbands, can you countryman? A voice, his conscience, was urging him to do something about it and please his woman. Women don’t enjoy financial featherweights as husbands, do they? A giant without a wallet should show little surprise the day his wife leaves him for being a dwarf.

The man didn’t answer Prospère’s question straightaway. First, he had to prepare his client by praising the superior quality of his cloth. "This, you can’t find anywhere in Sawang. C’est la vraie, vraie qualité, mon ami. Je jure. De Paris, de Cotonou, d’Abidjan ..." He went on and on, citing every foreign city he had ever heard of. Prospère admired the rattling in broken French. Like the praise singers of kingdoms of old, the hawker showered fathomless praises and flattery on the cloth. "Holland wax, English wax, Republic of Kuti wax, Veritable wax ... Real Guaranteed wax. C’est ça! Je jure. What madam doesn’t know Damax, le pagne Hollandais? The number one cloth from Europe that makes a woman stands out in a thousand? I sell the real thing, la vraie, vraie qualité. Beware of fakes! Buy from me ‘the cloth that doesn’t fade, the flower that doesn’t wither under the heat of the tropical sun. Je jure. Touch and feel for yourself, and know that I’m no liar. Why lie when something is so good? N’est-ce pas je dis la vérité, mon ami...? Make Madame smile forever. Buy one, take two ..." More and more people gathered around him to listen to his salesmanship.

Is that the one you’ve selected for Madame, M’sier? He gave Prospère the attention he needed, at long last. Prospère nodded.

"C’est huit mille francs, M’sier. Not the least expensive. You can see."

"Trop cher ça! Je donne 2500. Ah, mon ami, 8000 is too expensive," Prospère protested.

"No, if you really want to buy it, pay 5000. Ça c’est mon dernier prix."

"Non, je n’ai que 2500. Ou vous acceptez ou vous laissez. (No more than 2500, take it or leave it.)"

For five minutes each maintained his position. Then the hawker descended a step further, calling Prospère tightfisted, and stressing that was as low as he could get.

"Donne alors 4000, M’sier. If you really want it," he said. Ça c’est mon tout dernier prix. Je jure." The salesman gave his final price.

But Prospère would not raise any further. I’ve told you I h. only 2500, he insisted. Si vous acceptez je paie, si non…

"Comment vous faites le marché comme un anglophone he reproached, comparing Prospère to an English-speaking Mimbolander, someone from that part of Mimboland which was taken over by Britain when Germany, the original colonial mast was defeated in World War I. English-speaking Mimbolanders were reputedly tightfisted. "I give you a cloth this good for so cheap and you argue? What manner of man are you ... Anglo? Comme ça tu n’achètes jamais rien pour la femme. Tu es chiche." His reference to Prospère as being mean brought laughter from those who were following the bargaining. At the same time a couple of English-speaking Mimbolanders, who were also interested in what was going on, insulted the salesman and left, offended by his stereotype. This was only one of many such stereotypes with which the anglophones had to grapple in their daily experience of the very unconvivial co-existence with their francophone countrymen and women.

But Prospère maintained his calm, though hurt by the remark and comparison. I’ve told you I don’t have money. That’s the truth, he said firmly, in the French that had beaten English hands down in the struggle for language supremacy in Mimboland.

"Mais, est-ce que l’argent parle dans la poche? L’argent ne parle jamais dans la poche, mon ami, (Money doesn’t shout from the pockets, it never does, my friend.)" retorted the salesman. This statement brought more laughter and forced Prospère to tum and walk away in what others might have perceived as shame.

So Prospère had walked home without a cloth for Rose, but with the hawker’s statement about money ringing in his head. Even now as he recalled yesterday’s incident, he hadn’t ceased to appreciate the aptness of the remark. You can’t know who has money just by looking at a person, he agreed. Money doesn’t shout out from someone’s pockets: ‘I’m here, I’m here!’ he forced a smile and drove on. And how true! In the city you found simple truck-pushers or manual labourers in suits, and sometimes millionaires went about in shirtsleeves and blue jeans! Those who were well endowed financially occasionally seemed not too keen an extravagant display of wealth, while those with so little appeared to want to pass for everything that they were not. Yes, the hawker was right. You can’t easily say these days who has money and who hasn’t just from how people dress or look.

Now that he was going back home, Prospère thought, he might well stay and have, lunch with Rose. It was always a pleasure eating what she had cooked, although it wasn’t always exactly a pleasure providing her the money to buy what she needed for the cooking. Yet Rose was a wonderful cook and took such great care of him; she made sure that he ate his fill. I can see that you’ve not had a decent meal for days, she would say, scrutinizing her tired husband. Just sit in the parlour and have a rest, she would advise, uncorking a cold bottle of beer for him, taken from the crate that he was entitled to every month as an employee of the MBC. His choice of beer was usually Beaufort, but he wasn’t too fussy about it. I’ll prepare you something special, the best Poumang dish. She would switch on the charming smile that first brought him chasing after her I won’t be long, my dear, she would add, making her way to the kitchen, to cook Boungo Tsobbi for him.

Yes, she was such a loving and caring wife, such a charming little thing, as her twenty-five year old husband liked to say of her. She was so complete, a wife that only a husband mad upstairs could ever dream of hurting her by having an affair with another woman. Since their marriage, he hadn’t done as much as look at another woman! He had completely abandoned the reckless sexual habits of his life before marriage. His commitment to her was total. He truly wished he could be with her more often than was possible with his job as distributor. He also wished he could always give her the money she needed for housekeeping and perhaps a little extra for her own pleasure; but then, there was something in him that would always made him think twice, even when the money was there give out. And anyway, somehow Rose always managed to keep things going. That something in him, greed perhaps, or at least the ambition to be rich, always stopped him from asking just how she managed.

Prospère’s thoughts were racing ahead of his driving and he started to think of the house. He grinned at the thought of the smile of triumph on his wife’s pretty little face. I told you, didn’t, I? he imagined her saying about the rain. How would he reply to her? Play the male chauvinist

Reviews for A Nose for Money

[Davy Jones · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Stop using made up names!!! The literature makes a difficult read, too descriptive & I don't have time for that