I.M.C retweetledi

There was a woman who sold books from a table outside University of Lagos gate for nineteen years.
Not a shop. Not a stall. A table. Wooden. Two planks joined imperfectly with a nail you could see from a distance. She covered it with a blue wrapper when rain came and uncovered it every morning at 6am like she was opening something official.
Her name was Mama Buki.
I found her in 2007. First year. Needed a textbook I couldn't afford new. Someone pointed outside the gate and said the woman with the blue wrapper knew every book ever written and where to find it for a price that wouldn't end your month.
She looked at my list before I finished handing it over. Said she had two of the three. Said the third she could get by Thursday. Said Thursday like it was already settled.
She wrote my name in a small notebook with a biro she kept behind her ear. I asked what the notebook was for.
She said it was so she remembered who was waiting for what.
I looked at the notebook. It was almost full.
She knew my course by month two. Started keeping books aside before I asked. Would say I saw something for you last week in a way that meant she had been thinking about my reading while I wasn't there.
Nobody had ever thought about my reading while I wasn't there.
She had a son. Buki. The table was named after him before he was born. She had set it up pregnant and needed something to call it so she called it what she was going to call him and then called him the same when he arrived so they matched.
She told me this like it was the most logical thing in the world.
Buki was seven when I first saw him. Sat behind the table on Saturdays doing homework. Organised books by subject without being asked. When customers came he asked what year are you and pulled the relevant section forward before his mother turned around.
Seven years old.
Final year I came with a different list. Not textbooks. Just books I wanted to read for no reason except wanting to read them.
She looked at the list. Then at me.
Said this is the first time in four years you came here wanting something for yourself.
She found seven of the ten. Three weeks. Each one appeared with my name on a Post-it. No extra charge for the waiting.
I graduated in 2011. Lost the route.
Twelve years later I drove my younger cousin to Unilag for registration. Sat in traffic outside the gate.
Looked left.
Blue wrapper on a table. Same imperfect nail visible from a distance.
I got out of the car.
She looked up. The searching look. Then finding.
She said my name.
Twelve years. Said it like I had been away for a long weekend.
I asked about Buki.
She smiled the full kind. Said second year. Law. Said he called every Sunday and spent twenty minutes talking about books he was reading like she had trained him to.
Which she had.
I asked how she was really doing.
She said she was exactly where she was supposed to be. Said nineteen years at this table had shown her more of Lagos than most people saw from inside it. That she had watched children become doctors and engineers from this exact spot. That some came back and some didn't and she loved them the same either way.
Said the table was never about being remembered.
It was about making sure they left with what they needed.
I bought three books I didn't need.
She wrote my name in the new notebook.
Same biro. Behind the same ear.
Some people build their whole life in one place and the place becomes something people carry with them everywhere they go.
Mama Buki never moved an inch.
But she traveled with all of us.
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