The midday cockcrow found me in the kitchen cleaning the mackerels, popularly known as Titus fish, that I had bought from the market. On the white deep freezer in the corner sat my small radio, tuned to a music station. I jiggled my hips with the ease of a palm tree swaying in the wind, my feet tapping on the tiles like a drummer marking time to Angélique Kidjo’s “Wombo Lombo” drifting toward me.
It was a warm Saturday afternoon, the kind that pulled men out of their houses to perch on wooden benches, singlets slung over their shoulders, and half-empty Heineken bottles resting on stools.
Like a kitchen connoisseur, I arranged the Titus fish over the sieve, sprinkled a little salt to taste, and tossed them until they were evenly coated. Then I placed a pan on the gas stove and poured in oil to begin frying. The hot oil hissed like a snake and spat its venom at me when I dropped the first fish into the pan. I dodged the splash with a speed born of experience, then dropped another, and another, until there was no space left.
With one hand on my waist and the other gripping a fork, I stepped aside to watch the fish turn a delicious golden brown in the fury of the seething oil. I was still humming to the tune from the radio when I heard an earnest cry from the street.
“Olè! Olè!”
The fork in my hand fell into the stainless steel bowl with a clatter. I tore through the corridor to the window to find the source of the commotion. I got there just in time to see a tall, lanky man in a red T-shirt running and shouting,
“Olè! Olè!”
By now, people were streaming out of their houses: men in shorts, their torsos bare, followed by women wearing faded Ankara wrappers tied across their chests. A few men scoured their surroundings for long sticks, machetes, or any object that could serve as a weapon of defense or attack, whichever the case may be. The crowd parted for the tall man in red, with questions rolling off their tongues, “Where is the thief? Ehn? Where is he?”
I watched the man in red sprint down the street, still shouting “Olè! Olè!”, until he vanished in the distance, leaving the crowd unsure whether the thief was still approaching or had escaped.
Moments later, a group of fierce-looking men came charging up the street. They were armed with sticks, batons, and iron rods, their faces etched with fury and mouths tightened into hard pouts.
“Olè! Olè!” they chorused as they stormed past the house like bulls on a rampage.
Another group trailed behind them; less urgent, less coordinated, as though they couldn’t be bothered to catch up but still wanted to be seen as part of the action. For these ones, the sticks in their hands were more like accessories than weapons. They stopped to exchange words with some of the residents who had come out when the commotion began. Their voices rose, sharp and accusing.
“You people are wicked! It’s cowards that live on this street!”
“What happened?” Baba Tolu, one of the landlords, moved closer, his hands akimbo, eyes scanning the street like he expected the thief to jump out from behind a pole and snatch his long neck.
His harmless question irritated the men. Some hissed. Others rolled their eyes. One or two growled under their breath.
“Didn’t you see that man in the red shirt?” one barked.
“He ran right past you, and not one single person could grab him and hold him down? All of you are cowards!”
My eyes widened as I pressed closer to the window, straining my ears to catch every word, dismayed that we had all been deceived by the thief.
“Ah! That man in red was the thief?” Baba Tolu called out, waving to the other landlords to come closer.
Just then, a blue Hyundai emerged from the junction and crept up the street, inching towards the crowd. Its front tyre slid over an empty pure water sachet on the ground, the pop cracking through the air like a gunshot.
Poah!
The crowd scattered. The mob with machetes and rods forgot their weapons, dropped them in panic, and dashed for cover. Those whose sticks had become a burden flung them aside and bolted, abandoning their heroic mission in an instant.
“Yeeh!” voices screamed in all directions. People scampered like squirrels toward their homes. Baba Tolu jumped over the gutter in front of his neighbor’s shop, his pot belly swinging side to side like a hammock in the breeze.
The driver of the Hyundai slammed on the brakes to avoid the chaos ahead and began honking. I shrank behind the window, covering my ears as I watched the street descend into chaos.
When the crowd heard the shrill blast of the car horn, reality snapped them back to life. Their sanity returned. They paused mid-flight, turned to watch the car pass, and then started poking each other with laughter and mockery.
The mob chasing the thief didn’t bother to continue. Overcome with shame, many of them sneaked away from the crowd with their tails tucked between their legs.
“Nobody wants to die o. Abi, who wants to die? Everybody is a coward” was all they kept saying.
I was still giggling from my watchtower when a smoky stench floated to my nostrils. It clung to my throat like a mixture of burnt rubber and ash. I paused, leaned forward and sniffed the air. A sharp signal shot through my brain.
The fish!
I raced back to the kitchen.
There they were, my fresh Titus fish, now reduced to charred shadows staring back at me from the blackened pan.
Olè means “thief” in Yoruba language.
Titilayo Matiku is a Nigerian poet and story writer. She serves the hottest tea on her substack publication, Gists and Yarns. Her work has been featured in The Shallows Tales Review, Akpata, Paddler press, Sky Island Reviewand elsewhere. She enjoys simple little things like walking in the rain, listening to music, watching cartoons and painting her toenails in bright colours.
Artwork by Fox Barnhardt