Throughout the night and into the early morning, the plump rich man dreamed of fresh palm wine. While he slept, he heard the peculiar screeching sound (nails mixed with aluminum in a toolbox) made as the palm wine drinker rode his bicycle to the palm trees.
Deep asleep, he dreamed that, as he intercepted the vintner on his way to the palm tree, he was signaling for him to deliver a fresh pot of palm wine, which the vintner was guaranteed to have when he returned.
Soon after, a flash of realism interrupted his optimism. What if the rubber tapper had entrusted the fresh morning palm wine to another drinker?
A scornful smile rose over 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 premonition of impending loss, the possibility of fresh palm wine vanishing—a loss known only to lovers of palm wine—the rich man got out of bed. Since the town air hadn’t arrived that night, he had been sleeping shirtless. He tied a double-folded robe around his waist, over his boxers, fumbled with his toes for his slippers, then headed out the door, 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 another step, stopping at the side of the dirt road. First, his eyes turned to the road in search of the upholsterer. If the collector had passed his house, he must have turned the corner, protected by other town buildings erected everywhere around the narrow, winding drive.
Although the rich man was chubby, he believed that he could run if the need arose. He could run up the road, up to a reasonable distance, to find the upholsterer. On the other hand, he could wait, hoping that the winemaker would be late and still not arrive at his house. The chubby rich man thought while he waited.
What if Ferdinand took another path, or walked through the bushes, not only to harvest other palm trees, but to avoid men like him who want to order palm wine before the harvesters reach the ground safely? “Many of them,” the plump man muttered, “some of the best vintners have dropped dead, distracted while they thought how to appease the town’s rich drunks. 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 a little tighter, in a knot at the right side of his waist. After that, he found his belly and gave the fat fool a squeeze.
The pain of the squeeze caused more soul-searching. If the beater had driven past 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 that made 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 road.
Self-absorbed and on the verge of despair, the fatty didn’t 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 deep-set eyes were sunken.
Taken back upon arrival, the rich man found his belly and squeezed back into a wall of solid, goofy fat.
‘What are you doing in the middle of the road at this hour? Don’t those eyes of yours ever sleep?
‘What are you doing riding a bicycle before the last rooster crows; Don’t you ever stay
The collector raised his foot from the ground to the pedal, and the rich man quickly reached out an arm to hold onto the bicycle’s left handlebar.
What troubles your soul so early in the morning? asked the tapper.
‘A palm wine gourd, just as it is, fresh from the palm tree.’
‘You don’t have room to pour the palm wine,’ said the vintner, looking down at a pregnant belly. You store all your riches in your belly, don’t you?
It wasn’t the first time that the chubby boy had heard comments about his corpulence and was ready for an answer.
‘Poor squirrel, when are you going to enjoy the sweat of your work? Stop bothering the neighborhood with that squeaky bike of yours. Look at you, haggard 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 bicycle would slip out of the rich man’s grasp and he really began to pedal, to escape.
‘Don’t forget it,’ exclaimed the rich man. My fresh palm wine gourd!
‘Vultures circle overhead,’ replied the palm-wine drinker, ‘waiting for you to vomit or expel the contents of your belly.’
‘May you fall headfirst from the palm tree!’ the fat man yelled 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 over roasted yams. He was still wearing his robe folded. When he moved his trunk to the side, the meat screeched like a falling dead tree.
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 Ferdinand 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 village.
Stretching his right ear like a rubber band, he declared, ‘I hear the man’s bicycle hitting the palm tree.’