The Market Place

My colleagues have warned me against making this trip.

"These people are hostile towards foreigners, you must be careful," they counsel.

"But they are white," I reason, "what do they know about being black in a foreign African country?"

I exchange a few greetings along the way. "Bonjour madam," someone calls out every few metres.
"Jambo Sana," I respond. Ah! Africa, warms my heart, always friendly.

Then I get to the market place, loud rhumba music welcomes me. The market is crowded and noisy, I can hardly hear myself think – but then I suppose I didn’t come to the market to think. “I must just flow with the rhythm of the place, and be fully present, focus, focus," – I remind myself.

I walk from stall to stall, admiring the kikwembes – African print cloth, buying a few, conversing in a concocted mixture of Swahili and French. I meet Francina, she speaks English, and has a bubbly, likeable personality. She is selling pots, kikwembes, shoes, - everything. She is married, has children, she tells me.
"I am married too," I volunteer. "I was tired of the corporate life, the meetings, being stuck in traffic, and I needed to liberate my soul, that`s why I am here," I want to tell her.
Instead I settle for, "I am here for a short while, will be going home soon."
She looks young, beautiful- in her 20s, I conclude. She tells me her husband has travelled to buy stock for the "shop" "he always does, at least once a month," she says. I buy a kikwembe from her, more out of obligation than need. She appreciates my purchase "Do come back my friend," she shouts as I move to the next stall.
"I will be back," I promise.

I stop at a few more stalls, exchange friendly chatter, buy a beautiful purple dress, laugh some more, even promise my hand in marriage to an enchanted young man. I look at my watch- the market has completely absorbed me, It has been two hours since I arrived.

I walk slowly back to the camp, admiring the sunset in the distant horizon. "I love this place," I say to myself. "I love the people, the languages, the lush green vegetation- and I enjoyed the market place." But I feel sad, depressed, "Why should I be?" I admonish myself.
"Its been a good day, a wonderful day. I laughed, flirted and even made friends – I should be in a jovial mood."


The foul mood persists right past dinner. Surely it can’t be the poverty I witnessed. I have seen similar gut wrenching poverty so typical of Africa, before. I distract myself by flipping through television channels, drink some more coffee – no, it does not help, I am unsettled. The picture of young, scantily clad children running down the street is deeply engraved in my mind. Who are they? What are their hopes, their aspirations? Will they have dinner tonight?

I think of Francina, in hers 20s, in her stall, walking the dirt road back to her home, tending to her three toddlers, making dinner, rushing to her stall in the crispy morning breeze – waiting for her husband. No facebook, no manicures –
"Ah! the randomness of it all," – I resign myself, and swiftly fall asleep. "I could have been born here!"