Do you ever wander into the wrong pastry shop, restaurant, other eaterie, purchase a pie, sumbusa, samosa, cake, take a bite out of said purchase and feel immediately offended?
Do you think, “This sausage tastes like a raw fish and feels like it was sent to me by bad Karma.”? Do you think, “Is this a cake or is this a part of the building, for it feels and tastes like a painted brick.”?
When this happens, do you wonder what the trader was thinking?
Presenting, what they were thinking.
Day One: Ah, what a feeling of accomplishment wafts over me. In spite of my meager talents as a cook I have managed to transform ingredients into something less raw. One could believe from one glance that these are indeed samosas, cakes, pastries or sausages. I am not as useless as my teachers, parents and pastors all predicted I would be when they came upon my cavernous lack of creativity, imagination, intelligence and conscience. I have actually cooked! Yay me! I shall now sell these foodstuffs.
Later on Day One: I have laid them out on display and stood close in case a potential customer shows interest. Well, I did that for the first five minutes, then I got bored. I then tuned my Chinese phone, the one that doesn’t have a volume control, to a station playing that Panadol song and wandered off. I eventually found a comfy corner and, there, found a nap as well.
A couple of people walked by showing interest in the food but the first time I didn’t want to interrupt my enjoyment of the Nigerian song, and the second time, well, a nap is a nap: do I need to spell it out?
Much later on day one: The samosas have wilted. They are damp and floppy. The sausages are ageing. They look like old maths teachers whose only joy in life is hurting weaker humans. The cakes look like they could be used to build a mausoleum. I have not sold any yet. But I want to go home and see if the askari who watches the ATM on the way home might be interested in a quickie, so let me just bundle all of this into a sack and call it a day.
Day Two: Affande Annet is an animal in bed! If it weren’t for her bad breath and her insistence on using the baton, I would consider a serious steady relationship with her. Also if it weren’t for the fact that she is a terrible human being. Now back to the stall to sell my food. I guess I should stay awake and alert today so I get at least one customer served. The very idea sends chills down my bowels but that’s the economy we live in.
Later on Day Two: One customer came by and was looking at my flaccid sumbis when Mama Kirabo, who runs the stall next to mine, brought out a pan of glowing golden mandazi fresh from the pan. The customer immediately ditched my stall. I sneered at him, but he didn’t even notice. I hate Mama Kirabo.
Day Three: I spilt water over Mama Kirabo’s charcoal, so she won’t be stealing my customers this morning. Ah. Here comes one. He has actually bought one of the three-day-old sumbis! His face, as he bites into what he doubtless consideres the ghost of dead food seems to say he prefers hunger. He declines when I suggest he tries the sausage which looks like it has fossilised.
Day four: Mama Kirabo has the audacity to suggest I try selling fresh food. But can’t she see that I have not yet sold the crap I made half a week ago? Yesterday’s customer walks by. Then crosses the road clutching his stomach.
Later on day four: My food is turning green and even the houseflies have lost interest. I blame the government. Next time there is a riot I am all in. I will loot some of Mama Kirabo’s fresh mandazi.