Story: Before The Market Closes

 

 

I saunter in a street; black and well-paved with some white dashed lines in the centre. I recognize nothing new except for two policemen nearing a tandeem of boutiques that is alongside the street. They are dressed in black uniforms and are holding AK 47 guns. As they stride, their glances appear to be pierced. I am staring at them from a distance and it feels a little startling. They may stop me from getting what I want.

I hit five steps forward and stand under a yellow umbrella. There are two Mobile Money agents. I tell one to withdraw Rwf 10 thousand from my account. His countenance displays enthusiasm as he nods to my request. We take around two minutes to process the transactions until we are done. He hands me the cash and I proceed my way.

It's 4:51 p.m and I am at Gikondo market. Most of the market people are leaving but I want to go in. I draw near the entrance and find a cylindrical-shaped water bowl. Attached to it are some small pipes and two pedals on its lowermost part. One is usually for soap and the other is for water. There is also a sink where the water drops when users are washing their hands. This time, I let my right foot press the pedal but the soap doesn’t come out. I tumble my eyes around the place, looking for a block of soap.

"The soap is over, you can just use water," a dark-skinned girl who is dressed in a green vest, wrapped over a black t-shirt, informs me.

It’s not my first time to see her at this place. I know that she is a youth volunteer and she typically reminds people to wear masks and wash their hands appropriately before getting into the market.

Now that she tells me that there is no soap, I think of kissing my teeth but realise that it's an erroneous idea. I opt to wash my hands with water. I don’t have time to argue with her; I am running out of time.

"Anyway, where are you going?" She asks. "The market is already closing!"

"I am going to buy some fruits, sis. I'll just be quick." I say and then run towards the fruits and vegs section of the market.

I reach a stand where I usually buy fruits from. I cough but it’s normal. I've been coughing since morning and I don’t seem to sojourn.

"Maybe this is covid," I presume before I cough again.

I long to suppress this feeling from sticking into my senses. I know that I have tested negative yesterday. Unless the nurses have lied to me, otherwise, I am not ‘coronavirused’.

Since Friday, June 2, I've been sick of Malaria and flu. It started with a headache and body weakness; I’ve been having tough times whenever I tried to do any kind of work. The next day, the condition was worse. I decided to go to the clinic and found a nurse who provided some medicine. I knew that I would be fine but I pondered on how a mosquito has stung me in presence of a cock blender that has been plugged on all night. Maybe using it was no longer safe like using a mosquito net. I longed to remount it in my room as anger collapsed my sanity.

As I retrieve my mind from this memory, I notice a ‘not too long’ queue of people. They are telling the seller to hand them the fruits. She is dressed in a dark hijab whose color resembles her skin. I am not supposed to wait since it's already 4:56 p.m and she's probably closing in four minutes due to curfew. The good thing is that we, the buyers, have worn face masks properly even though the one-metre distance is lacking. It looks hard to maintain it in this kind of situation.

I stretch my arm and hands the seller two thousand. I tell her to give me a kilo of blood fruits.

"Bari kudutanga," a girl yells from my behind, petitioning for attention and complaining that I am going to go before her.

"Mxioum!" The seller kisses her teeth. "Calm down, you will just follow," she tells the girl before picking the blood fruits and putting them on an aluminium bowl.

She lifts the bowl and places it on the weighing scale. I squint diligently to see if my kilo is full. Then, I unzip my backpack and let the seller plop the blood fruits inside. She returns one thousand and thanks me. I nod and leave the place.

As I leave, I see other market people closing up their boutiques and stands. They put their goods inside the wooden bowls and bolt them. The security guards, policemen, and youth volunteers are instructing them to be quick. According to Covid-19 Cabinet measures, nobody has to be in the marketplace after 5 p.m but this time, I guess some people are going to surpass a few minutes. Nevertheless, they all know that they have to be in their home before 6 p.m.

I have gotten what I wanted and so I lead my way back home. The curfew hour, 6 p.m, has to find me there. I am also supposed to take the evening dose of my medicine. I cough deeper as I try to speed up my pace. I slacken it, embracing the ruthless side of life. I want something instead of this pain.

As I saunter, my senses flourish a feeling that I will be fine again and go back to work. I long to meet a day — bright enough to persuade me that I am going to be safe and serene again. For this, every night, I pray.

Photo credits: The New Times