Every evening it’s the same. I go straight from football practice to selling beans and chapatti. I don’t even have time to change out of my football clothes. I always make a profit, every day, because I have what’s called a prime spot. It’s right outside my sister’s hair salon, which is the busiest salon in town. Hundreds of people go past my spot as the sun sets behind the four storeys of Regal Towers, whose rooms have the best views of the throbbing bus terminal. I’m also a great saleswoman. That’s what people say. I may only be 13 years old but people flock to me. It’s the quality of our chapatti and my winning smile! I always sell out, even on rainy days.
I bring my small wooden seat and place it behind the low table. I sit on it and wiggle my bum to get the legs to dig deep into the sand. It won’t tip once it’s stable. Whether I lean forward or back. I fold out the plastic cloth and spread it over the table. It’s got red roses and grinning brown teddy bears on it. If I drop the steaming bean soup on it, the bears don’t mind, they keep smiling. And I can wipe not wash, as the advert said.
I hear the bus touts calling and the horns beeping for passengers. Their shouts for the big city are always the loudest. Their vehicles have a swagger about them too. Pumping music, extra thick back tyres and powerful names emblazoned across the front. One Desire. Beast. Messi. I feel sorry for the ones going out to the rural villages. Their calls are much quieter; the vehicles are more worn out with rusting edges. It’s as if they know their journey home is a rougher one. Their names, too, seem to know: Suffer, Continue. Prayer and Faith.
I continue to set up. My sister brings the beans in one hot pot and the chapattis in another and places them on the table. I run up the steps to the side of the salon to our room and get the ladle and the small black plastic bags. I grab the pot of small change that still smells of hair cream even though I washed it out three times. I settle down on my seat, ready for my customers. I know I have a few minutes before the rich children from the Bright Stars Academy arrive, jostling each other to go first with no manners whatsoever.
I can tell it’s been a bad day in the clothes market. The sellers’ shouts are getting desperate and the prices are low. ’20 bob, 20 bob, everything 20 bob’, again and again. That’s coming from the t shirts and vests pile. Those heaps of clothes smell of clean and not-clean at the same time. They all smell of the same detergent. People tell me the clothes come from Europe and America. I think they get dipped in that washing powder on the aeroplane over. Some are still a bit grimy even though they’re washed. Then they get opened up to our sun shine and dust and scrabbling hands as we look for the best buys. You have to wash those clothes with all your strength when you buy them. I can see two women pulling at the pile. One gets a lacy crop top and throws it back immediately. Next a fluorescent lycra spaghetti top. She dispatches that just as quickly and it gets lost amongst the rest within seconds. I would have liked that top. They start walking my way, past the stall that sells bras. Now, this is when I know I can never get bored, doing this work every evening. If things are quiet, I play the guess-whose-bra game. The bras are all hanging up, reds, whites, pinks, purples, spots and stripes, frills and shine and sometimes sparkles. I play it on my own, imagining who it was who first wore each bra. Was she living in London or L.A.? Was she a film star, a singer, a waitress, a teacher, a doctor, a hairdresser? If Fatima is around, she plays too. The only problem is, if we play it together, it gets a bit out of hand and we really get the giggles and that’s not so good for business.
© 2024 Sarah Forde Owuor.