You think you're so immune until you find yourself trapped in the very ego you once paraded yourself in.
It was a typical Sunday evening, and as tradition now demanded in our house, we were very hungry, tired from church and about to begin the second phase of Sunday stress and that is market runs. My kid sister, Shalom who is always the road enthusiast, tugged at my gown with her soft plea: “Aunty D, let’s go to the market, please.”
I didn’t have the energy to hold anyone’s hand, let alone her tiny overexcited self.
“Shalom, please, not today. Maybe next Sunday,” I begged, hoping she would give up.
But then my mother came in with her reinforcement tactics.
“Just take her, now… Buy what you’ll need and come back quickly, Please” she urged.
I just sighed, grabbed my purse, adjusted my scarf, and we set off like reluctant pilgrims in the search for their destiny.
Sundays in our house without rice and stew was unholy. Whether it be tomato stew or palm fruit stew, it must be made; no matter if you were fasting, mourning, or even about to give birth.
Now, there is a particular woman in the market. Her name is Madam Dorcas. She sells foodstuff in bulk. While I buy pepper, crayfish, scent leaf and other condiments from her, I avoid her palm fruit like the plague. It always looks promising but always turns out to be as dry as a harmattan beaten fire wood. No juice, no thickness, just regret.
My mother had warned me severally, “Why take her palm fruit when you know you will not buy?”
“I’m trying to have faith in her. Maybe this time around it will be different,” I would say.
“Well, you’re always disappointed. So what’s the exact point?”
But like a moth to a flame, I kept returning, hoping against common sense. And yes, I had developed the bad habit of tasting her palm fruit. I would bite into one, judge silently, and then leave her goods behind without a word. She never said anything, so I assumed she didn’t even mind.
This Sunday, with Shalom skipping beside me and the sun gently roasting our foreheads, we stopped at Madam Dorcas’ stall.
“Madam, give me pepper, give me crayfish, give me stock fish,” I listed my items while telling her the prices I wanted them in as though I had a master’s degree in market negotiation.
Then, the moment of temptation came.
“Madam, this your palm fruit get flesh?” I asked.
She said nothing but continued packing my items into the nylon bag.
Not minding her reaction, I picked up three pieces, examined them like a suspicious customs officer, then bit into one. It tasted dry again. I just shook my head. “Madam, this one no get flesh at all.”
As I spoke, Shalom tugged at my sleeve.
“Aunty D, drop it please. You didn’t buy it again,” she said, with her eyes wide open.
I looked at her like she had grown two heads. “What do you even know?” I muttered in my mind.
We paid for the rest of the items and left, heading toward another vendor’s stall for better palm fruit.
We had not even walked two minutes when I felt a sharp tickle in my throat.
“Ughk…” I clutched my neck. My throat was fighting tooth and nail with me. The tiny fiber of palm fruit I bit into had lodged itself like an uninvited guest at a wedding.
“Aunty D, what happened?” Shalom asked with panic written all over her face.
I opened my hand, revealing the half chewed palm fruit and attempted to speak, but only more coughing came out. My eyes were now teary. I felt so betrayed by the palm fruit, by my curiosity and by my ego.
Shalom burst into laughter.
“Aunty D! Karma has caught up with you! You should have just dropped it!”
I couldn’t even fight her. I was just too busy trying not to die on the road. After some serious coughing, swallowing and a sachet of pure water that tasted like what I can’t even recall, the stubborn fiber finally came out.
The relief was so immediate and so was the lesson.
When we got home, I collapsed into the couch like a fallen hero. But Shalom didn’t even give me a moment to recover from the ordeal. She zoomed into the kitchen like an enthusiastic news reporter and shouted,
“Mummy! Guess what happened to Aunty D!”
“Oh Lord,” I sighed.
“She went to taste that woman’s palm fruit again, and it choked her!” Shalom announced gleefully.
My mother burst into laughter, nearly dropping the meat she was washing.
“You see your life?” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “Now can you finally leave Madam Dorcas’ palm fruit alone?”
“Yes ma,” I replied with so much meekness.
“And you still bought from her?”
“No, ma.”
“But you still bit it?”
I looked down at my feet like a naughty school child. “Yes ma.”
“Well, maybe next Sunday you’ll have more sense,” she said, chuckling.
I nodded slowly, rubbing my still itchy throat. I had faced the consequence of my habit in full public view, with my younger sister as a witness and karma as the judge.
And since that day, I walk past Madam Dorcas’ palm fruit like it’s a hot stove. No more tasting and no more second chance. Because sometimes, when karma bites, it bites with palm fruit fibers.
