THE MARKET LADY

You are furious

He almost broke your arm

He couldn’t wait one moment for you

To withdraw yourself from his car

He is the one who asked for a look anyways

Bastards. They are all bastards.

 

Now your carrots are sprawled all over the road

Quickly rolling away, retreating

Just as your happiness had.

The sun is high-your shirt is already soaked

And your arm, sore.

 

Just because he has a middle class car

He thinks he has the right to stop at the roadside market

After a long self indulgent Christmas trip to his ‘homeland’

Waving his overpriced Samsung phone

And  demand that you sell your premier carrots, worth at least 100 shillings, at a measly 10 bob price?

What use did he have of the 90, anyway?

Sadists. They are all sadists.

 

90sh would do you good

Add a couple more zeros, and you would be sorted for a few more months

The noisy hum of the market place infuriates you

You can’t remember the last time you were engulfed in silence,

The last time you were peaceful

Maybe back in your childhood in Nandi Hills

Nowadays, chaos is the order of the day;

And uncertainty, plastic smiles, embarrassing sycophancy for the loud mouthed, middle class Kenyans who almost break your arm on a daily basis

You are supposed to revere those shining examples of what it means to ‘escape from the village’

To live in the city- to make it.

 

He had a youthful daughter in the backseat,

The girl was not pretty, but she had poise

She was scented, and absorbed in her equally overpriced Smartphone.

 

You think to yourself:

“That could have been me.”

An envy beyond all imagination engulfs you.

You are good-looking

You still turn heads

And you need no make-up, no perfume, no fashionable clothes.

It gives you some sort of perverse satisfaction

To know that you are much prettier than the daughter of that narcissistic excuse of a man.

 

The sun beats down on your face

You scrunch up your features in exasperation.

You have grown old- much too old- these past few years.

Would anyone believe you to be 17?

You can’t remember the last time you were peaceful

But you go on…

Life conspires against you,

But you go on.

 

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