The Open-Air Market

I make my way stealthily to the open field that’s bustling with activity. The area is busier than I remember and I’m having second thoughts on whether today is the best day to shop here. But since I’m here, I decide to go through with it.

At one corner, a seller is shouting himself hoarse singing the merits of his wares. Next to him, another enterprising trader plays music, full-blast, by the latest teen sensations. No doubt to attract youthful buyers. And sure enough, the young have gathered around his stall, nodding their heads and clicking their fingers to the beat of the music. However, no one knows how much of this interest will translate into hard sales.

I make my way carefully among the crowd, trying, unsuccessfully, to keep a social distance. I clutch my handbag tightly to my bosom. In this setting, you cannot let your handbag hang loosely on your shoulder. Chances are that someone will casually brush against you, your bag will swing back or even drop to the ground, and before you know it, your purse and mobile phone will vanish, or worse, your whole bag will disappear.

As I contemplate my next move in this adventure which is a visit to an open-air market, I notice a smartly dressed man taking out a wad of notes and carefully selecting one to pay for his purchases. “A newcomer to this set-up,” I think as I tighten my grasp on my handbag.

You can tell the veterans of open-air shopping a mile off. They keep their money in different places – in envelopes, inside the socks they are wearing, in handkerchiefs, wrapped up in bits of newspapers, and everywhere else that does not suggest money.

My attention is drawn to a mother who has made the mistake of bringing her two daughters – aged about five and three – to the market. She probably wanted the girls to try on clothes she planned to buy for them, but the girls are more interested in toys than clothes.

The three-year-old is hanging on to a doll that the mother had no intention of buying. “No, no, put back that doll,” the mother coaxes.

“But mummy, I want a doll,” answers the girl.

“Not today,” says the mother, still speaking gently. “Today I want to buy you clothes.”

But the girl is adamant. “But I want a doll,” she insists, on the verge of throwing a tantrum.

The mother’s patience is wearing thin. She yanks the doll from the little girl’s grip, places it back on the display table, and determinedly leads both girls away – heading home no doubt.

I find a trader selling trousers. Still clutching my handbag tightly, (“I should not have carried a handbag,” I think to myself), I use my free hand to unfold and feel the texture of some trousers. Since there are no fitting rooms in this open-air market, I need to use both hands to stretch the trousers, hold them against my hips, and waist, and assess their length.

To keep my handbag safe, I go to a corner of the shed, away from other customers and pseudo-customers. So I stand, with my handbag between my feet, holding the trousers against my body, turning this way and that way, trying to gauge the fit of the slacks.

I had not realized there is a gap between the wall and the floor of the shed. I’m just in time to see a hand reach out for my handbag. I quickly grab the hand and retrieve my bag. I hang on to the hand as though my life depends on it, shouting at the top of my voice, “Thief, thief.”

The trader rushes out and grabs the thief by the neck as I let go of the would-be thief's hand. I too make my way out of the shed to witness the drama. I marvel at the would-be thief. He is hardly more than a boy. The trader gives the boy a few slaps.

Other traders gather around, baying for the boy’s blood. I plead with them to let him go; after all, he did not take anything from my bag.

The traders send the boy off with a few kicks on the butt and a stern warning. “We have marked your face. Make sure you never come back here. You are ruining our business.”

And my business for the day is ruined too. I start for home, resolving to shop on another day – but without a handbag.

****

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