Throughout the night and until dawn, the plump rich man dreamed of fresh palm wine. As he slept, he heard the peculiar screeching sound (nails mixed with aluminum in a toolbox) made when the palm wine drinker rode his bicycle to the palm trees.
Deep asleep, he dreamed that, when he intercepted the winemaker on his way to the palm tree, he instructed him to deliver a fresh pot of palm wine, which the winemaker was guaranteed for when he returned.
Soon after, a flash of realism interrupted his optimism. What if the tapper had entrusted the fresh palm wine of the morning to another drinker?
A disdainful smile rose above his closed eyes to greet a witty thought: how society tends to favor the words of the rich over those of the poor, a phenomenon that, to his suspicious mind, makes the poor less vocal but more thoughtful. .
Ferdinand was the winemaker’s name, but everyone in the village, both adults and children, called him Otenkwu, ‘the man who touches the palm tree’.
With a presentiment of imminent loss, the possibility that the fresh palm wine would vanish – a loss known only to lovers of palm wine – the rich man got out of bed. Since the town’s air hadn’t come through that night, he had been sleeping shirtless. He tied a double-folded robe around his waist, over his boxer shorts, fumbled with his toes for his slippers, then headed out the door, out into the front yard.
The last rooster was crowing when he reached the double iron gates that guarded the compound. He opened the right side and walked one more step, stopping at the side of the dirt road. First, his eyes looked down the road for the upholsterer. If the harvester had passed his house, he must have turned the corner, protected by other town buildings erected everywhere around the narrow, winding road.
Although the rich man was chubby, he believed he could run if the need arose. He could run down the path, a reasonable distance, to look for the upholsterer. On the other hand, he could wait, hoping the winemaker would be late and still not get to his house. The rich chubby thought while he waited.
What if Ferdinand had taken another path, or walked through the bushes, not only to take advantage of other palm trees, but to avoid men like him who want to order palm wine before the collectors reach the ground safely? “Many of them,” the plump man muttered, “some of the best winemakers have dropped dead, distracted as they figured out how to appease the rich drunks in town.” Is the love of palm wine the root of all evil?
Devoid of immediate action, the rich man untied his robe and tied it back, now only slightly tighter, in a knot on the right side of his waist. After that, he found his belly and gave the fat fool a squeeze.
The pain of the squeeze provoked more soul-searching. If the beater had passed the house, he would have heard, even in his sleep, the sound of his bicycle.
There’s a chance, the plump rich man thought, that a bike making that sound was sick and likely to break down at any moment, and Ferdinand might not have saved enough to pay for a repair. So maybe he had taken shortcuts, through the bush path.
Lost in thought and on the verge of despair, the chubby boy did not notice when the collector approached him and put both feet on the ground. He was a wiry man with a narrow chest, a pair of long sticks for legs, and a large head in which two sunken eyes were sunken.
Taken back upon arrival, the rich man found his belly and squeezed back into a wall of silly solid fat.
‘What are you doing in the middle of the road at this hour? Do those eyes of yours never sleep?
‘What are you doing riding your bike before the last rooster crows; Don’t you ever stay
The picker raised his foot from the ground to the pedal, and the rich man quickly reached out to grab the left handlebar of the bike.
What is it that disturbs your soul so early in the morning? the tapper asked.
‘A palm wine gourd, just as it is, fresh from the palm tree.’
‘You don’t have any room left to pour the palm wine,’ the winemaker said as he looked at a pregnant belly. You store all your riches in your belly, don’t you?
It wasn’t the first time the chubby had heard comments about his corpulence and he was ready for a response.
‘Poor squirrel, when are you going to enjoy the sweat of your work? Quit bugging the neighborhood with that screeching bike of yours. Look at you, gaunt and wiry!
Fighting before climbing a palm tree is always a bad omen, and Ferdinand was quick to stop a climb. He prayed that the handle of the bike would slip out of the rich man’s grip and actually started pedaling, to escape.
‘Don’t forget it,’ exclaimed the rich man. My fresh palm wine squash!
‘The vultures circle overhead,’ replied the palm wine drinker, ‘waiting for you to vomit or expel the contents of your belly.’
‘May you fall headfirst out of the palm tree!’ yelled the fat man as he walked back to his house.
Later that morning, just before the sun began to reach the village, at a makeshift breakfast table in a backyard, six roasted yams were placed on a flat plate. In addition to the yams, there was a worn white metal container containing a mixture of pepper, palm oil and salt.
In a low wooden chair by the breakfast table, the rich man squatted on roasted yams. He was still wearing his folded robe. When he moved the trunk to the side, the chair screeched like a dead tree falling.
A meter away, the servant who prepared breakfast stood like a statue ready for further orders.
Palm wine… Ferdinand? The rich man remembered, not knowing if the words were coming from his lips. Has the palm wine arrived yet? Has Fernando returned? he started smoking the servant.
‘Sir…’ the servant said, and then hesitated for a few seconds as he listened to the various sounds of the town.
Stretching out his right ear like a rubber band, he declared: ‘I hear the man’s bicycle hitting the palm tree.’