Read Every Day Is for the Thief: Fiction for Free Online

the audience raises her hand in awe and adoration of the mighty name, rises to her feet, swoons.

ELEVEN
    A debola, Muyiwa’s brother, had just been born when I left home. Now he is in Class Two of the senior secondary school, thinking about going to university in a year or two. He is a bright boy, ranked in the top twenty in a class of over 250. He is thoughtful and good-natured, and attends Mayflower School in Ikenne, Ogun State. Mayflower, one of Nigeria’s most reputable boarding schools, was founded by Tai Solarin in 1956. Solarin was a maverick, much persecuted by the successive military juntas that misruled the country. He died in 1994, and many Nigerians continue to hold him in highest esteem. One reason for this is that, for most of his life, he led the campaign to make elementary education free and compulsory in Nigeria.
    —Tai Solarin was a humanist, Adebola says.
    —That’s right, I reply. And do you know what a humanist is?
    —Yes, of course. A humanist is someone who doesn’t believe in God.
    —Oh no, Adebola. That’s not the definition of a humanist.
    —Tai Solarin is a humanist. And Tai Solarin doesn’t believe in God.
    —Both of those things are true. But neither follows from the other. A humanist is someone who believes in humanity, someone who celebrates human ability and potential. That’s where we get the word “humanities” from. A person who doesn’t believe in God is an atheist.
    —A humanist is someone who doesn’t believe in God. That’s what we were told at school.

TWELVE
    O ne goes to the market to participate in the world. As with all things that concern the world, being in the market requires caution. The market—as the essence of the city—is always alive with possibility and danger. Strangers encounter each other in the world’s infinite variety; vigilance is needed. Everyone is there not merely to buy or sell, but because it is a duty. If you sit in your house, if you refuse to go to market, how would you know of the existence of others? How would you know of your own existence?
    When I start speaking Yoruba, the man I’ve been haggling with over some carved masks laughs nervously. “Ah oga ,” he says, “I didn’t know you knew the language, I took you for an oyinbo , or an Ibo man!” I’m irritated. What subtletells of dress or body language have, again, given me away? This kind of thing didn’t happen when I lived here, when I used to pass through this very market on my way to my exam preparation lessons.
    The Tejuosho bus stop, a stone’s throw from where I stand, is a tangle of traffic, mostly danfos and molues, that one might be tempted to describe as one of the densest spots of human activity in the city, were the description not also true of many other neighborhoods: Ojuelegba, Ikeja, Oshodi, Isolo, Ketu, Ojota.
    “Well now that you know I’m not a visitor, you will agree to give me a good price, abi ?” He shakes his head, searches for excuses. “ Oga , times are hard, I am not charging you high.” He still suspects me of carrying more money than I know what to do with. The masks are beautiful, but the price he is asking is exorbitant. I leave his shop and move on. Other vendors call me. “ Oga , boss, look my side now, I go give una good price.” Others simply call out: “Oyinbo.” “White man.” Young men sit in the interiors of the small stalls on raffia mats or on low stools, their limbs unfurled. They are passing time, waiting for the next thing, in bodies designed for activity far more vigorous than this. I move through the warren of shops, which, like a souk, is cool and overstuffed, delighting in its own tacky variety, spilling seamlessly into the cavernous indoor shop. Piles of bright plastic buckets line the entrance, and beyond them, the cloth merchants—these ones are women, alhajas —swaddled in laces and looking out with listless gazes. The hall is notwell lit. It is as if the outdoor market is reclaiming for itself what had