Saturday

Saturdays aren’t so different between America and Nigeria. Chores, cartoons, shopping, and watching sports. Among a group of neighbor women, little Chris’s daddy Daniel scooped water from the well, scrubbed his family’s clothes, rinsed and hung them to dry. Inside, little Chris watched Dora the Explorer. Sitting to eat his toast and scoop his tea, spoonful by spoonful, his eyes were mesmerized by the show. Who knew that Dora spoke Arabic? “Does he understand?” I asked his mommy. “No,” she said, “but if I put on a different channel he will cry.”

In the afternoon, our visiting group squeezed into the Jeep to ride to the market. We snaked through the people and stalls, elbow to elbow, toward Blessing’s preferred fabric shops. Overwhelmed with choices, we finally decided before going to the Museum shops for trinkets and such. How wonderful that some of them remembered me. After all, I have been a good customer three other times. I buy items to take home to sell in the United States. (If you want me to buy something for you, please let me know what you want.) My luggage going home will be filled with necklaces, bracelets, fabrics and wooden items.

As we left the shopping area, we heard a group of young people singing this song: “Saturday.” That’s it. The only lyrics were “Saturday.” I guess that no other words are needed.