Season of Crimson Blossoms by Abubakar Adam Ibrahim

Author:Abubakar Adam Ibrahim
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: CASSAVA REPUBLIC PRESS
Published: 2016-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

18

It takes more than a bucket of dye to change the colour of the sea

Mallam Haruna sat surrounded by a battalion of zanna caps fitted on wooden kwari, the special handmade dummies he used to give the caps their size and shape. The caps, washed and set out to dry, and turned inside out so only their blue interior showed, occupied all of the shop, save a small path leading out to the narrow side street, traversed by traders and customers heading home from the market.

Up on the shelves, populated by rows of colourful caps stacked atop each other, glistening in transparent waterproof wraps, was Mallam Haruna’s trusted radio, from which the afternoon news blared. But the man himself was focused on the piles of caps beside him, picking them one after the other and fitting them on the dummies. There was a secret to his success as a cap washerman – the skill of wankin glass, of making caps gleam as if they were bottles in the sun. It was in the myrrh and its application; in smoothly beating it into the threads. In the careful application of a weighted, hot charcoal iron. He learnt the technique from a friend who had learnt the secret in the desert fringes of Maiduguri.

People from the capital trooped to Mallam Haruna’s shop, tucked away in the corner of the Mararaba market, keen to have him make their caps emit the aura of prosperity. And with the referral from a member of the House of Representatives, word spread to the red and green chambers of Mallam Haruna, the man who made caps glimmer.

While his three apprentices did the actual washing and, under the master’s supervision, applied myrrh, Mallam Haruna was left with the task of fitting the caps into the right kwari for a perfect fit. It was a gift, being able to look at someone’s head, even from a distance, and tell exactly which kwari would fit his cap. At night, if he did not carry his radio and go in pursuit of other things, he would lock himself in the shop and apply the finishing touches. By morning, the boys would come and find rows of gleaming caps neatly stacked on the shelves.

In the afternoons, usually after Zuhr prayers when the boys were doing the grunt work, Mallam Haruna would carry his radio and head out of the market to see his friend, Mallam Balarabe, who sold earrings, necklaces, wristwatches and other such trinkets beside La Crème.

Mallam Balarabe had a good spot, right on the kerb of the fast food joint where men trying to impress their dates were easily cajoled into buying ornaments for twice the normal price. Sometimes, guests at Shagali Hotel across the street also came to look at Mallam Balarabe’s merchandise.

That afternoon, Mallam Haruna turned the corner and saw Balarabe sitting under his sun-beaten parasol, no longer the eye-catching red it used to be. With his radio pressed to his ear, he walked up to his friend and salaamed.

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