The wine man, Ekiti, methodically rinsed and poured, rinsed and poured, took money, gave change, rinsed and poured. I’m not there (I’m tired) to say worksaid in pidgin english when pouring moved a hot afternoon. Since my father didn’t die 17 years ago na dis work I managed. (I have been doing this job for 17 years since my father died). he added she. His dark skin polished by wind and sun. Her hands were pink and swollen from years of rinsing and pouring, her nails discolored and disfigured. Each time, before drinking the elixir from her, Ekiti’s clients would hold this gourd between their thumb and forefinger, examine the milky red liquid as if looking at something valuable, and then quickly drink it down.

Another thing that made Ekiti famous amid the hustle and bustle of Oshodi was his peel or facial mark – a large vertical line on each cheek. Ekiti was among the minority of people with facial marks in a city like Lagos. He used to complain about his daily encounter with people who ridiculed him. He praised how modern ways of thinking have succeeded in removing the meaning of tribal markings. After a heavy downpour one afternoon, and with no customers to attend to, Ekiti sat quietly on a bench, haunted by anxious thoughts that often shook him to tears.

Ekiti had lost 5 of her 12 children to measles in one week. She lost 3 of her 4 wives to poverty. She abandoned him because he could no longer afford to take care of them. They left all his sons behind and headed for their respective towns. They were happy to exchange the routine of urban life with Ekiti for the peace and serenity of the countryside.

“Lance-Corporal. Aren’t you going to the barracks today?” (Have you not gone to the barracks today?). One of two men in a okadaa motorcycle taxi shouted as it passed.

“Na God poison you.” (God will punish you). Ekiti yelled back.

“No, so people call me-oh.” Ekiti wailed.

“Ekiti, but don’t ever tell me you haven’t served in the army before.” (meaning you never told me you ever served in the military before). I asked.

“My brother, don’t say that I have served in the army before. Dem call me that way because of my facial markings…” (Not that I have served in the army before, they call me that because of these facial markings… ).

“As?” I interrupted”.

Looking haggard, Ekiti replied:

“Dem call me that not because I’m a member of the military, but because of how many stripes I have on my cheeks.” (I’m called that not because I’m in the military, but because of the number of stripes on my cheeks).

“Looking surprised, I asked:

“Ekiti, I don’t quite understand this.” (Ekiti, I can’t understand this).

“I mean, because the stripes on my cheeks are the same number as on a spear corporal’s uniform in the army.” (I want to say that the number of stripes on my face is equal to the number of stripes on a spear – corporal’s uniform in the army).

He recalled his last attempt to cross the Sahara desert into Libya three years ago.

“As if I didn’t want Tripoli anymore. If it wasn’t for bad luck.” (I should have been in Tripoli by now if it wasn’t for bad luck.)

He said he was conned out of money by unsuspecting rough camel jockeys who had promised to transport him on a camel from Agadez in central Niger to the Libyan border. After that incident, the once proud Ekiti was forced to carry sandbags on his back to work and earn enough to return to Nigeria. According to him, he had borrowed a lot of money to start that failed trip.

There used to always be a single dusty electric fan that dissipated Oshodi’s heat from Ekiti’s stall. The atmosphere mostly reflected the people, who literally came from all over Lagos looking for a gourd of the sweet elixir. What was special about this very stall, and its only pumpkin, from which all the customers drank, only Ekiti and his customers knew.

“Naija, don’t be a poor country, but look how we don’t suffer, my brother.” Ekiti lamented one afternoon. (Nigeria is not a poor country but look how we are suffering my brother).