One Picture One Story: The Market That Never Sleeps

Before daybreak, marketers are already at the market opening their shops. Musa, who is best known for selling perishable items in the market, sat at the edge of the stall, with a small bowl filled with Nunu milk, which he was taking. He watched the road the way fishermen watch water, patient and hopeful.

Every passerby, including myself, who passed was a possibility. Every pause, a chance to earn something for the day. Musa did not speak much. The market taught him that silence could be stronger than shouting.

Behind Musa, Aisha leaned against the shelves of noodles, rice, and tins. Aisha's phone glowed in her palm, not with entertainment, but with customers complaining, but she knew the truth and was eager to reply to her customers as she thought Musa was piping from her back.

Prices of goods had changed again. Transportation costs were higher. Customers complained, but she already knows the truth: survival had become expensive. Aisha signed softly, then straightened her back and said, "Complaining would not sell any tomatoes".

A young woman passed by, fingers hovering over the peppers. A small baby tugged at her wrapper. Musa then lifted his eyes and smiled. Musa said, "Madam, this one is very fresh." The woman looked at him, nodded her head, and moved forward, talking to herself.

To musa the market isn't just a place for buying and selling. It was a meeting point of stories. By the afternoon, the Sun shone harder. Sweat shone on faces, but no one left. The market never truly slept, because hunger did not rest, and hope could not afford to rest. As the place got dark, Aisha put her phone away. Musa stood and stretched. "The tomato is less now," said Aisha. This is enough to say the day had meaning and we are grateful.