Jingles of Memory

This was a morning of the cool December in Lagos and the streets were smoldering with the normal commotion. Squeezer horns blared, motorcycles swerved and somewhere down the road, a street peddler jangled a tray of metal bracelets to attract attention.

However, to Emeka, the sounds of the city were no longer heard. The little, little jingle, which he heard today is a sort of jingle that could hardly be heard at the beginning, like one of those secrets which have to be uncovered.

He traced it in a small passage between two high structures. The fried plantains and exhaust smell together with a cat that was running past, was brushing his leg. The alley ended in an old shop, of which he had never noticed the existence before. The door was of wood, hung with a bell which fell softly against the door whenever the door was opened.

Curious, Emeka pushed the door open.
The shop was small but cosy indoors. The shelves were lined with rows of glass jars which were full of small trinkets: smart shiny buttons, beads of every color, and small metal charms. The counter was behind which sat an old man with a smile on his face, which made his eyes shine.

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"Good morning, mister, how are you doing?" said the man. “You heard the jingle, yes?”

Emeka nodded. “I… I think so. What is this place?”

"Jingles, that is where the old man winked. And all the sounds you hear, all the little tinkles, all the little bells you may read their history here."

Emeka frowned. “I don’t understand.”

The man laughed and sank in under the counter, taking out a small silver bell. "This bell," he said, "was suspended once on the door of a little house in Ibadan. Whenever the wind passed by it sang to the family within a small little song. "

He held the bell tenderly and Emeka caught the mellow tinkling.

"It is beautiful," Emeka said to herself.

The old man said everything has its jingle. “Even people. There are loud jingles and Some put a smile on your face, some make you remember."

Emeka looked around. The number of bells was hundreds, and each bell was another one, each had its tale.

There was a little golden bell ringing like laughter. One of them was made of bronze and it sounded like footsteps on a wood.

This was one small ring of coins in a jar.

“Can I… touch them?” Emeka asked.

“Of course,” the old man said. “But be careful. Some jingles are delicate. They carry memories.”

Emeka took a plain-looking bell which seemed to be forgotten. Shaking it, he felt like being back in the kitchen of his grandmother, the bang of spoons, the squeal of the pots, the little bells that she hung on the pantry door.

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All these things came to him in a torrent of memories: the laughing of his grandmother, the scent of her food, her hug to him. He had not thought of her in years, yet here she with life, again, trailing along with a mere jingle.

"You have one," the old man said to himself. Some of the jingles take long before they are heard.

Emeka didn’t answer. He only held the bell, and allowed the memory to overtake him. Then he shook it again, and again, till he had the impression that the sound belonged to him.

“I think… I will have this one," Emeka, said at last.

The old man nodded. “Take care of it. And also bear in mind that all those jingles are somewhere in the story of some one. It is not merely a sound you may hear, so you had better listen to it."

Emeka went out of the shop with the bell in his pocket. It no longer sounded like the city noise I heard outside, but it was lighter and more cheerful, it was all jingling in little things, all little shouts in each step, each movement.

He grinned, and pictured all the stories that were lurking right below the surface, and were waiting to be discovered by someone.
And it seemed as though Lagos had been magic after all the first time of the morning.