msafiri fiction 146 Mallam Sile was short. In fact, so short that many claimed he was a pygmy. He stood exactly five feet and one inch tall. Although he didn't have the broad flat nose, poorly developed chin, and round head of the pygmies, he was stout and hairy all over — probably his only resemblance to them. A childhood sickness that deteriorated Sile's vision had continued to plague him throughout his adult life. Yet he refused to go to the hospital and condemned any form of medication, tradional or western. " God is the one who brings illness, and He is the only true healer." That was Sile's simple, if rather mystical explanation. He believed that the human body in which a disease resides will one day give in to Death, " no matter how long it takes Her to catch up with one." Sile's small face was covered with a thick, long beard. The wrinkles on his dark face and the moistness of his soft, squinted eyes gave him the appearance of a sage, one who had lived through and conquered many adversities in his life. His smile, which stretched from one wrinkled cheek to the other, baring his cola- stained teeth, attested to his strength, wisdom, and self- confidence. On any given day Sile wore an identical outfit: a white polyester danchiki and its matching wando, a loose slacks that used strings at the waist. He had eight of these suits, and wore a different one each day of the week. Also, Sile's perpetually- shaven head was never seen without his white embroidered Mecca hat— worn by highly devout Muslims as reflection of their submission to Allah. Like most of the Street's dwellers, Sile had only one pair of slippers at a time, and replaced it only after it was worn- out beyond any feasible repair. An unusual birth defect that caused the tea- seller to grow an additional toe on each foot made it impossible for him to find a footwear that fitted him; special slippers were made for him by Anába the cobbler, who used discarded car tyres for the soles of shoes he made. The rascals, led by Samadu, the Street's most notorious bully, poked at Sile's feet and his slippers, which they called ' kalabilwala', a nonsensical term no one could understand, let alone translate. At forty- six Mallam Sile was still a virgin. He routinely made passes at the divorcees and widows who came to his shop, but none showed any interest in him whatsoever. " What is one going to do with a dwarf?" the women would ask, feeling ashamed of having passes made at them by Sile. A couple of them, however, were receptive to teaseller Sile's advances, though everyone knew the girls flirted with him so they could get free tea. Eventually, Sile resigned himself to his lack of success with women and was even convinced he would die a virgin. Yet late at night, after all the customers, gossips, idlers, and rumor- mongers had left the shop to seek refuge in their shanties and on their bug- ridden grass mattresses, Sile would be heard singing love songs, hoping that a woman somewhere would respond to his passionate cries. A beautiful woman, they say, Is like an elephant's meat. And only the man with the sharpest knife Can cut through. That's what they say. Young girl, I have no knife, I am not a hunter of meat, And I am not savage. I am only looking for love. This is what I say. Up North where I am from, Young girls are not what they are here. Up North where I am from, People don't judge you by your knife. They look at the size of your heart. Young girl, I don't know what you look like. I don't know where to look for you. I don't even know who you are, young girl. All I know is: my heart is aching. Oh, Oh, Oh!. My heart is aching for you. Sile's voice rang with melancholy when he sang his songs. But, still, the rascals derided him. " When at all are you going to give up, Sile?" they would say. " Can't you see that no woman would marry you?" " I have given up on them long, long ago," he would reply, " but I am never going to give up on myself!" " You keep fooling yourself," they would tell him, laughing. The rascal's mocking of Sile didn't end just there. Knowing he didn't see properly, they used fake or banned cedi notes to purchase tea from Mallam Sile at night. The tea- seller pinned the useless currency notes on the wall as if they were good luck charms. He believed that it was hunger — and not mischief — that had led the rascals to cheat him. And since he considered it " inhuman to refuse a hungry person food," Mallam Sile allowed them to get away with their frauds. When Sile cooled off hot tea for customers, he poured the contents of one mug into another, raising one over the other. The rascals would push Sile's arms in the middle of this process, causing the hot beverage to spill all over his arms. The tea- seller was never angered by such pranks. He merely grinned and flashed his cola- stained teeth, and without saying a word, wiped off the spilt and continued to serve his customers. The rascals did even worse things to the poor tea- seller. They blew out the lanterns in the shop, so as to steal bread and milo while he tried to rekindle the light. He forgave that and many other pranks as they occurred, effectively ridding his heart of any ill- feelings. He waved his short arms to anyone who walked passed his shopfront. " How are the Heavens with you, Boy?" he would shout in greeting. Sile called everyone Boy, including women and older people, and he hardly said a sentence without referring to the Heavens. He prided himself on his hard work, and smiled anytime he looked in the mirror and saw his dwarfish appearance and ailing eyes, two abnormalities he had grown to accept with an inner joy no one could understand. A few months before the death of his parents, he had come to the conclusion that if Allah had created him any different than how he was, he wouldn't have been Mallam Sile — an individual Sile's heart, soul, and spirit had grown to accept and respect. This created an inner peace within him that made it possible for him to not only tolerate the ill treatment meted out to him by the Street's rascals, but to also forgive them for their actions. Though in their eyes Sile was only a buffoon. One sunny afternoon during the dry season, Mallam Sile was seen atop the roof of his shack with hammers, saws, pincers, and all kinds of building tools. He tarried there all day long like a lizard, and by dusk he had dismantled all the aluminium roofing- sheets that had once sheltered him and his business. He resumed work early the following morning, and before azafar, the first of the two afternoon prayers at one- thirty, Sile had no place to call either home or teashop — he had demolished the shack down to its dusty floor. After La- asar, the second afternoon worship at three- thirty, Mallam Sile moved his personal belongings and all his tea paraphernalia to a room in the servant- quarters of the chief's palace. The room was arranged for