Contributions缴纳金的故事

We have been practicing esusu1 for a long time. Our mothers did it， our mothers’ mothers did it. And probably their own mothers， too. We’ve never had a problem of this substance before， nothing so significant until this woman showed up. Nothing we couldn’t fix， anyway.

This is how our system works： each woman has one month to contribute a certain amount of naira2. Our names are on a list， and when that month is over， whoever’s number one takes it all. Then the contributions begin again， and at the end of the second month， number two collects. The names are always in random order. We go down the list until the last person has collected， then reset. This works for us. We don’t need your banks; we don’t need your loans. We can take care of ourselves.

Things aren’t always smooth. There was the time Iya Ibeji wasted her collection on a trip to Dubai—camel rides and shopping—and then couldn’t make her contribution the next month. We had to seize her frozen-food store’s generator until she came up with the money. We are not wicked people， you must understand， but for this system to work， there has to be order. Another time， Mrs. B had to pay hospital bills for her son’s operation. If we show pity even once， our structure will collapse on itself， so we seized Mrs. B’s daughter. The daughter made meals for us， she carried our bags when we went to the market， relieving us of some burdens; she rubbed our feet and plaited our hair. When Mrs. B raised the money， we sent her daughter back home. We still have fond memories of the girl： her sweet smile， her spicy beef stew， the way she sprang， lightly， from foot to foot as if her bones were made of paper.

Ours is a small group. We must be， for trust， for reliability. Not just anyone will accept our terms of admittance， both lifelong and strict. We take what we can until your obligations are met， and for many， this is too much power， too much risk. We haven’t invited you here， we tell the ones who balk， their necks tilted at beseeching3 angles; go try your luck at the banks. We’ve worked too hard to allow any stupid leniency4 that could risk sending us back to the gutters. So when the new woman came sniffing at5 our meeting， with her crooked teeth and shuku， we warned her， we asked if she was certain. Yes， she said， she needed an alternative to the banks; yes， she said， she was sure. She was a cousin to one of our brothers’ best friends， so we said okay， even if we were hesitant—our hands fiddling with6 wrappers， our chests tight， we welcomed her.

At first， things went smoothly. Nonsense hardly ever shows itself immediately. She paid her contributions on time; she came to the meetings and drank Fanta and ate chin-chin7 with us. She weighed in on8 decisions like what color to wear to Sisi Oge’s daughter’s wedding （pink or burgundy）， and whether we should collectively stop patronizing Nature’s Way Spa because the owner elbowed one of us on the way to get communion at church. But by the fourth month—six away from her collection month—she started leaving texts on our phones， begging for more time.

Look， it doesn’t work this way.

We appraised her life， checking for what we could seize， what we could take from her so she would understand the gravity of this commitment. We found nothing except a husband and an old mother in the village.

We seized the husband.

Alas， he was useless around our homes. He sat with our husbands， his big beer belly and their big beer bellies all shuddering gelatinously in mirth at some distasteful joke. Her husband screamed at football games with ours， played table tennis in our gardens， whooping like a fool whenever the ball thwacked against the paddle in his hand. Sometimes he looked at us. He looked at us and reminded us of the expanse of our hips， the heft of our breasts; reminded us of the ways our bodies take up space.

We returned the husband， and still she couldn’t pay her contribution， so we seized her mother.

Her mother was no better. The old woman sat brooding9 in corners， her eyes bulging out at us as we pounded yam or sewed a button on. She blended in with the cobwebs， her skin acquiring a dark fuzz， a gleaming scaliness， exploiting the shifting shadows. And when she eventually turned into a frog and then a lizard and then a cat， our children squealed10 in delight. But when they tried to pet the cat， she scratched their hands， drawing blood， leaving scars in the shapes of a strange language. She leapt away from our punishing arms to perch high above our heads， and we strained our necks to look at her， envying the fluffy agility11， the way she could wrangle her body into a smaller， lighter version of itself， stealthy and wily and out of reach.

We sent the mother away and called the woman in. What else could she give us to hold onto， until she could make her contribution？ We sat her in the center of the group， so she could feel our eyes prick at her skin from every direction， feel the pressure of our disappointment.