Okrika Sellers

By Solape Adetutu Adeyemi

PROMPT — Despite ...

On a sun-fried morning in Lagos Island,

where danfos cough carbon dioxide into the blue sky

and the air smells of pepper soup and hot rice

the okrika kingdom opens for business.

They arrive like prophets of fabric,

disciples of denim,

high priests of previously-anointed Gucci.

They spread their gospel on the floor

shirts fanned like playing cards,

jeans folded with the bravery of second chances,

skirts whispering, I have seen London, but I now reside in Idumota.

Ah, the choreography!

A blue tarpaulin becomes the Atlantic.

Clothes sail upon it

blazers with foreign accents,

T-shirts that once attended festivals in places

where PHCN does not blink.

Some sellers squat and others stand regally,

Bells in their hands, bright eyed

Queens of clearance,

Kings of “Last price!”

Their eyes sharper than tailor’s scissors,

their instincts sponsored by survival.

They size you up before you greet.

If you step close in crisp Ankara and sunglasses

they greet you with,

“Madam! Original Zara! Worn only two Sundays abroad!”

If your slippers look like they’ve trekked from Yaba

they switch tone like a DJ at a wedding:

“Oga, no worry. I go package am for you. Na quality we dey sell.”

But come modest.

Come quietly.

Come without earrings,

without lashes batting like generator fans.

Let your skirt fall below the knee in simplicity

Immediately, the radar pings.

One seller leans forward, conspiratorial:

“Sister… I get deeper life style here.”

From beneath the flamboyant pile of club dresses

emerges a secret section

skirts that fear temptation,

blouses with sleeves long enough to rebuke sin,

cardigans that have prayed before.

It is profiling, yes

but make it fashion evangelism.

They study your wrist for wristwatch theology,

your phone for denomination,

your posture for budget capacity.

A girl with braided confidence?

“Fine girl, this one go show your shape well-well”

A banker with stressed tie and tired eyes?

“Oga take this blazer. Promotion is near.”

And when bargaining begins

oh, the theatre!

“Three thousand!”

“Ha! For this?”

“Madam, I swear on my late mother’s cousin’s grave, shishi I no even gain.”

“Last price.”

“Okay, because you be my first customer.”

They say that to everybody.

Even by 6 p.m.

Sweat glistens like unpaid bills.

Voices rise above bus horns and hawkers of Gala and plantain chips.

The okrika sellers remain undefeated

economists of elasticity,

psychologists of pocket depth.

Somewhere in the pile

is a jacket that has seen Heathrow,

a skirt that survived Peckham rain,

a T-shirt that once knew central heating.

Now they lie on the floor of Lagos

like fallen aristocrats awaiting new destiny.

And destiny will come

in the form of a university student calculating transport fare,

a church sister avoiding temptation by neckline,

a young man buying confidence at a discount.

Because on Lagos Island,

style is not born, It is simply negotiated.

And the okrika seller

oracle of fabric,

judge of status,

minister of “Sister, come and see”

knows exactly who you are

before you know what you want.

Now excuse me.

They are calling my own category.

“Oga writer! I get creative jacket here!”

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Solape Adetutu Adeyemi has her work published in the New York Times, the Indiana Review, the Kalahari Review, and the Guardian to mention a few. She has degrees in Microbiology and Environmental Management. Solape writes from Lagos, Nigeria.