The woman had a basket on her head full with fishes; there were little ones and big ones. I knew this because this was not the first time she had been to my grand-mother’s shop. I was standing there beside the half broken protector wrapping my fingers around the belt attached to my favorite navy blue colored gown. “Were your mama, go tell am say fish don com”. I stood there studying her as she let down the basket of fish from her head without dropping the piece of rag from her head that she uses to steady it; I found it intriguing and curious, but the curiosity vanished as soon as she removed the rag and stood akimbo looking tired and staring at the little girl who wouldn’t go call her grandmother. “Were your mama na” she asked in an irritated tone, “abeg call am come, I get market to sell for olori road”. Bashful me stood there staring and studying her with curiosity that I could not explain, until suddenly my aunt Jorfa (meaning: add another one) ran out, “mama dey come, she de