my first idea of money was that it never came easy. Very early in the year, my mother would draw two thigh long lines in her black note book and write our names in it, my sister and I. The black book was her book of income and expenditure but a page, every now and then was always dedicated to us, to save about 10 % of every naira that was given to us, by her, my father or any visitor in a wooden piggy box. The money was to be put down in advance for Christmas, against our shoes, bags and dresses.
She grew up during the war, when money was a scarce commodity and every penny had to be held down unless it grew wings, flew away never to come back again. One ice cream satchel cut in halves, shared between my sister and I because, according to her, after 5 seconds of creamy milk, it was all ice and not worth spending 20 bucks a piece on each.
So every month, we would keep money in advance for Christmas. There was this joy of building, of hoarding, with a purpose to lavish. Once it was December she would faithfully bring out the book and by candle light we would calculate how much we had each saved.
There was great joy in breaking the wooden box to reveal tiny folds of five naira, ten naira, twenty naira and even fifty naira. She would count the pile of money, and carry them to the nearby grocery store to exchange in hundreds and two hundreds naira notes. The grocer lady was always happy to help.
She made sure we visited the market very early in December, before the harmattans came to fill the air with the smell of Christmas, before the market women brains realised it was time to increase the prices of their wares. We would visit the local market each with a bag, she would follow us as we led her to the shops that displayed the wares that caught our eyes. Dresses with flare skirts, jackets and matching hats and bags. She would help us negotiate a deal with the seller, pay then cross the amount off the ledger in her black book. We bought dresses, shoes, bags, sunglasses.
Before we left the scorching heat of the market, she would permit us to reward ourselves with an ice-cream cut in half. Whatever change that remained was to be kept and put against next year because it was going to be another Christmas.
Now I’m 30, and I don’t save anymore, I read and learnt the secret of abundance and how to manifest money by standing with raised arms in the smiling buddha position. One hand a little higher than the other, both held loosely to receive while bad vibes were dropping off from the other hand tilted towards the floor.
Mama still keeps her black book, in her small flat at the end of an orchid garden. she still reads them early in the morning sitting by her big window, she still likes to shop early in December before the smell of Christmas hits the air, and she is usually willing to lend me some money whenever I fail to manifest some.
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