[...] John Muriamo, a 45-year-old teacher and father of four teenage sons, arrives ready to bargain hard.
He has the equivalent of $20 in his pants pocket. He is wearing one of the two white long-sleeve shirts he owns. Both are threadbare. He is trying to support his family of six on a salary of $325 a year — a little less than a dollar a day. But, like many Africans, he often is paid late, if at all.
With sweat rolling down his face in the tropical sun, Muriamo stops at the booth of Precious Okoyo. He selects a yellow Lakers T-shirt and a checked Gap shirt for his two older sons, and baggy jeans for his two younger boys, who are 14 and 15. Finally, for himself, he picks up a lily-white, long-sleeve Yves Saint Laurent shirt that, with any tie, could command respect from his students.
Okoyo does some mental calculations and tells him that he owes her 4,200 naira, the equivalent of $28.
"I'll give you 1,800 naira," Muriamo offers, his voice cutting through the hum of buying and selling.
No response.
"Look, Miss Precious, I always buy from you," he pleads. "Am I not your best customer?"
He makes a final appeal: "Everybody has to live."
"Teacher, make it 2,700 naira and we'll remain friends," Okoyo says. "But remember, next time it's my turn."
Muriamo hands over the money, grabs the merchandise and thanks Okoyo with an elaborate handshake. He has a piece of clothing for each of his four children, a new work shirt and about $2 left. His children will be happy, and his family will eat tonight.
Like other Nigerian men, Muriamo used to wear the colorful, flowing Nigerian agbada on special occasions, or when he and his family attended Sunday services at their Pentecostal church. He cannot remember the last time he bought one of the traditional robes. Now, his $20 would buy only a yard or two of locally produced fabric.
"We get better deals because everyone is trying to do some business," Muriamo says of the market.
One reason is international trade policy. While Nigerian fabric has grown scarcer and more expensive, reforms demanded by international lenders have eliminated Africa's high tariffs on imported clothing, driving down prices.
After a decade of wearing used clothes from the West, many Africans find that necessity has become style. Their children no longer want to wear anything else.
"If they want to look like rap stars and sports stars, we can't compete," says J.P. Olarewaju, who heads an association of Lagos textile manufacturers. "The children want to dress in baggy jeans and look like their heroes.
"It would be the happiest day in my life when secondhand clothing is truly banned from this country," says Olarewaju, who is wearing a floral green African suit. He acknowledges that he hasn't been able to keep even his own children from shopping at the bend-down boutiques.
Nigerian wholesalers evade their country's ban by shipping goods to neighboring Benin, where a bribe to a customs officer guarantees passage to Nigeria — and boosts the local economy. Fifteen percent of Benin's revenue comes from so-called re-exports.
Once in Nigeria, the clothes pass through a chain of middlemen to markets buzzing with millions of eager customers. Even when Africa's ferocious noonday sun is beating down on them, buyers and sellers merely pause. [...]
| Davan Maharaj's "For sale -- cheap: 'Dead white men's clothing'" is the third installment of "Living on Pennies," a five-part Los Angeles Times series on how millions of Africans live
posted in articles on July 15, 2004 12:33 AM | t (0)
« Previous phile: Carry enormous significance beyond the pool.
» Next phile: As if they possessed all the black knowledge there was.
Return to top of page