A Gbanjo Trader, Once Upon a Time

by

Obododimma Oha

Have you encountered a real gbanjo trader armed with a bell and his sweet tongue, inviting attention to his goods on the ground? "Gbanjo" is a Yoruba word  for what the English would call "auction," but that gives us a poor translation, for a "gbanjo" person does some other things. The Igbo would call this "gbanjo" something like "mgbuka" (cutting to bits or pieces) (alternatively, "ire na ntụ," or "selling as ash thrown away")  but this near-synonym is not acceptable to us, for "mgbuka" has something derogatory about it. The "gbanjo" person is not really "cutting it into bits," as the Igbo name sugggests. Anyway, the Igbo derogatorily refer to the "gbanjo" businessperson as "onye mgbuka." Also, in their naming is the implication that "onye mgbuka's" goods are of low and terrible quality. But we know that superior goods could feature in "onye mgbuka's" heap. Which is why this article partly reveals the slippery wisdom we used as "gbanjo" businesspeople once upon a time.

In my own part of Igboland, children are trained to be self-reliant. Right from infancy, they are exposed to the idea of struggling to be a success on one's own. So, when I was just a child, I was a dealer in kerosene and would return from school only to head for the market with my galon of kero and beer bottles for measuring the fluid for buyers. I used to have a strategic location in the marketplace, so that buyers would easily see me and my ware. This required being sharp-eyed to see when a bottle is approaching or when a bottle is hiding in a bag, especially if there were other competitors selling kero. But I supplemented this with going round and picking the bottles and knowing each owner, to ask the owner to pay later at nightfall when going home. So, one was used to making money by this means, or joining adults in their contributions in meetings which would be shared before a major feast like Christmas.

What it means is that one could approach the feast richer and could buy things for oneself. What gave joy like a shirt or footwear one gets for oneself? That was a special wear! And the feast was a special one!

So, one was already used to the culture of self-reliance which came up now and again. it was in the spirit of this culture of self-reliance that, during our long vacation, when I was only going to Class Three in the secondary school, I went to spend the "holidays" with a cousin who was a "gbanjo" trader in Imo State in Nigeria. In the one room that he shared with other traders, I was asked to find a corner and to occupy it. I did so. The "house" was in the heart of a market and its walls were made of zinc. That kind of house was called a "batcher." Well, my gbanjo cousin did not even mind.

In a few minutes, he explained their frugal ways: we had to go a kilometer away to fetch water in the night, we had to buy supper and it could just be leftovers of things, we had to sweep the premises, the landlady came once in a while  and was a fighter; in fact, as a no-nonsense woman, she could pour acid on anybody (something I witnessed once!), our toilet was that open street! And so on.

Over to the real "gbanjo" experience. On a marketday somewhere in the vicinity (provided the ware was ready and waiting), one would leave very early to get a ride at the back of a pickup van with some market women. The ride could be hard and challenging, but when one got to the market, one would quikly jump down or be helped to do so. One could  get cramps after such a long and uncomfortable ride. But that was to be expected and was just an exercise or personal training.

Then, to the heart of the market on arrival. One spread one's nylon on the ground, brought out one's bell, and one's carton of wares. Then one went to the food sellers to buy breakfast and eat it fast. Time waited for nobody. After that, one had to pretend to be a buyer and confirm at the shops the prices of the wares that one brought.  If one brought camphor and a wrap was ten kobo in the shops, one cut one's price to five kobo. That was it.

When the selling began and the "gbanjo" business person was with the bell inviting attention with some sweet words or drama, even those in the shops would come to buy and resell later. They could buy in large quantities. that meant more gain. Their logic was that, instead of going to Onitsha to buy which could entail offering bribe to police on the way (apart from other risks), the best thing was to buy from the "gbanjo"  trader. Let the "gbanjo" trader carry or take away the many risks.

To say the least, the profit was not much for us as "gbanjo" traders but before long we were ready for home, ready for another market elsewhere in the state, collecting our little profits. Those who wanted to sell a wrap of camphor (which may be discoloured at point due to age) for ten kobo could wait for buyers for months or even years. The "gbanjo" businessperson had moved on.

The next day, the "gbanjo" businessperson living in a "batcher" would climb into another crowded truck and head for another market in the local community. But one was not worried since one was sure of making little money during the holidays and buying things for oneself.

I remember these "gbanjo" days with great pride. Today, as an elite person, one has to live a life of falsehood, giving the young ones the wrong impression that going to school means depending on other people for life. Nonsense. One is here on earth on one's own. If one chooses not to struggle, it could be terrible and worse tomorrow. Onyemaechi? Who really knows tomorrow?