Madam Tinuke’s backside was one of her most prized possessions, it swung proudly behind her as she moved from stall to stall on hot afternoons. On a good evening in Labake’s bush bar, if you were lucky she would retell the story of how she shook her ikebe to Fela in the 1970’s. She would tell it after 2 or 3 cups of palm wine.
The deeper the keg went the louder she spoke, her deep voice and laughter mixing with the various tales of other drunk customers.
Cup 4 was for her son in America, why he hasn’t returned.
Cup 5 was for the 20 thousand he sent last week, how she was hard working and didn’t need the money.
Cup 6 was for her daughter who spends more time with her mother-in-law, doesn’t have her own money, how her child has been bewitched.
Cup 7 is for her dead husband, how she doesn’t remember how to cry.
Labake never served eighth cups.