From a novel ‘River Country’, by Emily Fowke
A few metres down the road from the hospital the afternoon sun had begun to make a Fruit Seller’s produce perish and she was tiring fast after so many hours at the busy roadside. Her smartest working dress felt heavy and sticky upon her shoulders and she had been feeling the thick sweat patches under her arms for several hours. There was a point when it could start to feel desperate standing there like that, with no shelter overhead. But at such times she sought to see the big picture – yes it was desperate now, but if you threaded together all these hours, some vacant, some with a few sales, over a whole week – you found there were dalasi there that would not have been there otherwise, and so it was worth it.
She had four children, all in school, after schools reopened following seven months closure some time back. They were always needing something. They were fortunate in her family, as her husband had a job manning petrol pumps at a garage and a nice boss; but it was not well paid and making ends meet was always problematic. Their parents and a brother helped as they could. Her husband did not like her to stand all day in the hot sun, but so it was and there was nothing undignified in trying to earn an honest living to help your kindred. If she could do it, she would try and start sewing again, for her mother’s friend, but in the past years business had dried up and the current climate was not promising when few people had any extra money to spare having used savings to tide them over during the covid years.
Just then an expensive car, small, silver and sleek, with darkened windows passed her; a sight that was so unusual on this street that many stopped their business to watch it. The car felt threatening, alien. Like a sudden shadow that makes you shiver instead of a shade that cools. It drove on eventually – though at no speed as the traffic was very congested. The Fruit Seller was relieved when it had gone.
A moment later, a rounded-looking woman of under forty, wearing a very smart white dress and turban, and with a pleasant half-smile on her lips that echoed in her eyes, stepped out of the hospital doors, clutching a bag. She was about to walk past the fruit seller to a spot by the roadside which would be favourable for hailing a share-taxi, but hesitated. She had noticed the heat and exhaustion in the fruit seller’s face and promptly asked her for a bag of oranges.
They exchanged a few words – about fruit trees, the season, the cost of things, and the conditions in the hospital for the relative the wealthy woman, Isatou Bojang, had just visited. Then the fruit seller hailed a passing share-taxi and ushered the other woman towards it, holding her arm companionably. They smiled and parted: ‘Thank you sister,’ called Isatou, clutching her bag to her chest and stepping into the cab.
She had to squeeze in. Though she was wealthy by the standards of the city she still regularly used local public transport and in fact enjoyed doing so. It was not every day that her husband or his assistant could drive her. The other customers shuffled up making space for her as they exchanged brief greetings in Wolof: ‘Nakum’, ‘Naka suba si’ (Hello/Good Morning). Local people spoke Wolof or English as a shared language. ‘Jerejef,’ ‘thank you’, replied Isatou as the man beside her shunted up further. She was not going far, only a quarter of a mile to the main market, but in the heat of the day it was always worth avoiding walking when you could. No-one minded her proximity as her presence was a pleasant one since she always carried an air of peace with her, whatever the situation she found herself in.
The taxi pulled up next to a crowd of passing people and deposited Isatou Bojang and most of the rest of the passengers who were also headed for the market. They were immediately engulfed in light, noise, and heat. Smartly dressed elderly people walked carefully by, avoiding the rubbish which had collected at the roadside due to the bad arrangements of the municipal refuse agency. A beautiful young woman in a new bright dress and headscarf sauntered along, two children in school uniforms eating nuts, trailing behind her. A spare, ragged man with the tense, watchful look of hunger and desperation moved exaggeratedly aside to let her pass; she thanked him ‘jerejef,’ then, seeing that he was trying to sell plastic shoes, bought a pair for her son Jalamang, giving him a couple of dalasi notes extra which she had to hand. She felt his eyes on her as she walked away, whether from gratitude or resentment she couldn’t say. She also sensed the eyes of the shop keepers on one side and those of pedestrians on the other – and considered how in the city you were never unwatched outdoors.
Easily dodging the traffic, which moved slowly, she crossed to one of the entrances of the market and plunged into the equally hot, but quieter, and more muffled atmosphere there; something she knew very well, since when she was a girl she had frequently accompanied her mother here when she went to manage her stall. It was nostalgic to pass one aisle of stands and see a little child put down to have a rest at the foot of a large pile of fabrics.
Isatou Bojang moved briskly, but called and nodded greetings as she went; she didn’t want to stop and talk right now, as the hospital visit had taken some time and she knew that the current mission to choose and give directions for many fabrics would be a consuming one – especially since the friend of her mother’s she would buy from was a talkative woman, even by Gambian standards. But she had allowed a couple of hours for it – which she was sure would be necessary: there would be no point in trying to hurry the process with so many commissions and purchases in mind and it would be impolite.
‘Koritanante,’ called the friendly tradeswoman, in Mandinka, spotting her and clapping her hands together with pleasure. ‘Abingadi A be ñadi?’ (what’s news). ‘La-i-la-ila-la!’ she added exuberantly when she eyed the long list which Isatou passed her. Isatou also handed her the bag of oranges, just purchased from the fruit seller by the hospital as a gift. She was soon consumed by heat and textiles, and time passed in a blur of colours, textures, chat and the pleasant tang of green tea – without too much sugar as her preference was. She was glad not to have brought little Ndeye – who would have been a nuisance.
She chose matching purple, green and blue wax print cloths for her boys, with a main motif of bicycles which they would like. For Ndeye one of red, white and green with a print of leopards and for her husband Ibrahima and herself, orange, crimson and green, with a pattern of ribbons and other shapes which was very nice. She found other good patterns for her sister’s family, plenty of tasteful bright wax prints for her niece Bintu and all the family, including chain stitched silk-types from India which were more expensive for more of Bintu’s dresses and some thick cotton hand woven pieces which could be used as coverlets along with some matching lengths of a design of trees, flowers and birds in blue and silver for her Aunt Ida and Uncle Nfansu Jatta.
Outside the market, up the road, by the hospital, the fruit seller gave away most of the last of her now softened produce to the poor man who Isatou had earlier given a few dalasi to. Then she rubbed her hands on a piece of cloth, bundled up her baskets and prepared to walk home. The man prepared for his own long walk to the compound of a cousin. There he was able to sleep in a corner of a crowded room of male relatives and share the family meal. Relatives have a duty to take in a wide group of family, so he did not feel resented, but he liked to do what he could for them. The money would buy a present for the eldest wife of his cousin who was always kind to him. He would eat the fruit now, to provide energy for the long walk along the main highway. He would stop and join prayers in a mosque along the way, then when he finally got back it would be dark.
Banjul and the large conurbations around were all winding up for the evening, four o’ clock prayers had passed and next there would be the prayers of sunset and nightfall: Isha. People looked forward to the cooler air, to washing, changing and eating. They were weary after working long hours and ready to rest. Some were more lucky and not so weary, or hard up, and were imagining with excitement, a night out in one of the clubs or restaurants in the smarter areas inland or beachside. Others looked forward to gathering inexpensively with friends on one of the beaches – to cook food there and maybe dance or play football.
In the areas of bush and mangrove which still encompassed the sprawl of the urban areas, one set of creatures was tucking itself away for the night and another set emerging; and in the deep seas, who knew, what was going on – where the fish swam in those depths of mystery and stillness beyond view always. Only the fishermen had a glimpse of that, and only from the surface.
