A Nose for Money

B. Nyamnjoh

Description

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.

Sujets

• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: East African Educational Publishers
• Date de parution: 15 juin 2006
• Nombre de lectures: 2
• EAN13: 9789956790579
• Langue: English

Extrait

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 Langaagrp gmail.com www.langaa-rpcig.net
Distributed in and outside N. America by African Books Collective orders africanbookscollective.com 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
P rosp re 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. Prosp re 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, Prosp re 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, Prosp re 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, Prosp re had agreed to look for a new job. But jobs were hard to come by, and the offers weren t always attractive. Prosp re 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.
Prosp re 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, Prosp re 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.
Prosp re 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 Ind pendance Mod r e 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 Prosp r