SHORT STORY:BUY THE PIG TO GROW THE NAIRA BY KUBY UYANGA.

I know some interesting stories. Let me share a recent one.
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One day a Fulani man (let’s call him Adamu) went to pick up a second-hand truck he’d bought from a large farm on the outskirts on Yola. His fifteen year old techie nephew had helped him seal the deal on OLX.
Buhari visited Yola the same day Adamu picked up the truck from AFCOTT FARMS. He drove down the slope toward the S-bend just before the “Welcome to Numan” sign post. The north-eastern sun was besting itself and there were many checkpoints because of the presidential presence in nearby Yola. He glanced at the silver watch on his fair wrist. The digital dial read 1:39pm. Despite the fact that he’d miss Jummat prayers, he was in high spirits. After only six years of trading beans in Gombe, he’d finally saved up enough to buy the truck.
Adamu was proud of himself. Now he could go into larger scale supplies. And just as Allah would have it, Alhaji Joda of Gombe Jewel Hotel had set up a meeting for 4pm that evening. He stepped on the brake as he approached the checkpoint just before the bend.
Unlike the lengthy questions at the previous roadblocks, the lanky MoPol who sported fake Raybans and whiskery tribal marks waved him past with a nod and a, “ya hanya?” Adamu responded, “lafiya ela boi”, and drove past without coming to a full halt. Then he stepped on the gas to make up for his slow progress and glanced at his watch again. He had to get to Shagalinku junction by 3:30pm at most.
The black hog was already in the middle of the road when he raised his head. A loud but blunt thud reported from its impact with the truck’s metal fender. Adamu pulled over and looked in the side mirror. The animal was sprawled motionless in the sunshine. He got down and confirmed the pig was dead. As a devout Muslim, the animal was unclean in his religion but he dragged it to the roadside and turned toward the two Bachama men who were approaching him with unfriendly faces. Bachama people are mostly Christians and they rear swine extensively.
Adamu was dragged to the nearby police station. The big bellied Investigating Police Officer who heard the case had C. M. Okonkwo stitched into the breast of his faded black uniform with white thread. After a whispered conference with the Bachama men outside, the IPO came back and delivered the verdict. Adamu had to pay for the pig he’d killed. A pig of that size went for between twenty and thirty thousand but the owners demanded for seventy thousand naira. They adamantly argued the high worth of their animal. A long argument ensued which Adamu lost, partly because he was outnumbered, partly because the policeman was sympathetic to the Bachamas’ opportunistic cheating and partly because he was a… never mind. IPO had to earn his percentage. Adamu took a motorcycle to the bank and withdrew money. He went back to the police station, paid the seventy thousand and went his way.
The schemers high-fived themselves. They shared the loot and the meat. They’d got the upper over a Fulani ‘one’. Even though the sun was particularly harsh that afternoon, it was a good day. They’d shared some bowls of brukutu and departed to have siesta while their wives cooked the pork.
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It was about 3 o’clock when our hero, Adamu, suddenly resurfaced at the station. He had two ASPs for company and the marks on their cheeks were similar to his. IPO came out of his office when he heard Adamu yelling at the counter. He exchanged compliments with the ASPs and asked what the matter was. Adamu explained that he’d left the hog he paid for behind and was back for it. IPO swallowed a glob of spit in surprise and mumbled something as he beat a hasty retreat to his office. From safely behind his desk IPO sent Constable to relay news to the Bachama brothers and the other ‘eyes wey see’. The message was that the funky mallam was back for his ham and the man was going mudafogging ham (in his Anambra accent). All pieces of pork were to re-converge at the police station, latest 1545 hours.
Adamu waited till the last batch of pig meat was in. They were spread on the floor behind the counter. Boiled pig, fried pig, roasted pig and raw pig in different pots and pans. Then he raised his head and piped that his pig was black and whole, not cooked and cut to pieces. Adamu demanded to get back his black hog, whole. The particular one he’d killed and paid for. Or get paid for its tragic loss in such emotional circumstances.
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I know this story because my father is the local moneylender.
The Bachama men had to buy the pig to (further) grow the naira.
Adamu’s pig was worth five hundred thousand naira.

WRITTEN BY: Kuby Uyanga.

Kuby Uyanga was seven years old when his father paid him five naira to read and re-tell the story in an illustrated book accurately. His lust for silver coins motivated him to convincingly complete the task. He made sure to recount the story properly so those silver pieces of metal joy could jingle in his pocket. A spark for story telling had been ignited. Twenty-two years later – seven spent studying and practicing Structural Engineering have not succeeded in extinguishing the ensuing combustion. Today he writes stories, screenplays, poetry and copy professionally. He also moonlights as a personal/organizational development speaker and events host in Lagos.