The Face-off

My mother enters the market like a general,
her wrapper tight like armour for the coming war.
She points a finger at a set of lace;
the seller smiles, sensing a victim.
“For you, Mummy, only ten thousand,” he says,
as if he is doing us a favour.
She cocks her head sideways, draws a breath.
“One thousand naira,” she says, without blinking.

The seller gasps, clutching his chest.
“Ah! Mummy, do you want me to beg for bread?”
I am sweating, staring at my dusty toes,
praying that no one from my school sees us here.
He comes down to eight;
she stays at one with a dramatic hiss.

“Mummy, please, just pay,” I whisper.
She looks at me like I am the enemy’s spy.
“Let’s go,” she snaps, grabbing my hand.
We turn our backs on the lace and the argument.
I am counting how much face I have lost,
one step, two steps, three steps towards the gate.

Then the magic: “Mummy, bring your money!”
The seller is defeated; the lace is ours.
She doesn’t smile; she just hands him the notes
a conqueror collecting tribute.
I carry the bag, still red with shame,
knowing I will never be this powerful.