The market was old, timeless Africa; loud, crowed and free. Here a man sat making sandals from old discarded motor-car tyres; there another worked at an old sewing machine, making a nightgown-like affair while the buyer waited; a little further on, an old goldsmith worked at his dying art, but using now copper fillings instead of gold to fashion the lovely trinkets women wear the world over; elsewhere a woman sold country cloth fashioned with such fine art that only Africans think of it as a garment of utility. Trade was slow and loud everywhere. This was as much a social as a shopping centre. For an excuse to spend the day at the market, a woman would walk all way from her village to town with half dozen eggs. She would spread them on a little bit of ground for which she paid rent. Through the day she would squat on the ground and talk to others who came for the same reason. She would refuse to sell her wares till it was time to leave. They were the excuse for business. Whether in earnest or as an excuse, the traders were boisterously free, loud-mouthed and happy. The laughter of the market was a laughter found nowhere else in all the world……………

I dare not lift the veil that protects our tribal marriage customs and ceremonies from the eyes of outsiders. There is already too little in this world that is sacred; and what Fatmata and I were required to go through during the next week must remain so. I was deeply in debt by the time everything was over, but I was absolutely satisfied with my parents’ choice. Fatmata was as black as satin, and as soft. She had the teeth and smile of a goddess. The Dopo tutors had done their job well; she was a completely efficient lover and mother. I brought her home with swelling pride, and began at once to save all I could spare towards the cost of acquiring my second wife. My anti-Western revolt was gaining momentum