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Ahmad Adedimeji Amobi: The Road Seller

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Inside the sunkere gbakere of moving vehicles on the Ibadan-Osogbo expressway, a boy ran after a ‘micra’ car to place a piece of gala into a hand thrusting out of the car with a 200 Naira note. As he exchanged the gala with the money, he sighed in relief. He’s happy to have made a sale. Before heading back to where he dropped the box still full of gala, he bent and held his stomach. It was just 12 noon, and he probably intended to sell the entire box before nightfall.

As the bus conveyed us to Osogbo, the boy’s face lingered in my mind. As I write this, I can still picture him in motion: his black, flat footwear dragging on the asphalt, his shorts falling loosely off his hip and his sweaty face. I took a picture of him running but deleted it because, what for?  

Every time I travel by road, there are always sellers like him trying to force their sales through the glass for passengers to buy. One time, on my way to Akure, someone on the bus joked that they could collect whatever those sellers were selling and not pay them because the bus would not stop. While the person did not attempt to do such – in fact, they bought a bottle of water and paid – I wondered how that thought slipped into their mind.  

I remember growing up with someone who used to sell oranges like the boy. But what made hers different was that she didn’t have to run after any bus. She just had to sit with her goods displayed before her. But she had young boys and girls that did the running for her. And here’s how these young girls and boys made profits: for every bulk of oranges that she gave them, she added some pieces. These pieces belonged to these younger folks. But they can decide to increase the price of the oranges. If an orange cost 100 Naira, and were lucky to sell it for 150 Naira, the top-up belonged to them. And if they were unable to make any sale or tangible sale, so they would go home, empty-handed.

Sometimes, I ask myself why these stories burden me and I can’t help but write them. I ask myself why my mind has to carry them for so long that my fingers end up writing about them. But I take solace in my reason for writing: to document the stories that sneak into my mind through my eyes. There are stories we encounter every day but let them go because, well, to what use are they to us? We are also battling our own battles. Sometimes, I wish I could buy every item from these road sellers but I can’t. Anytime I try to, I don’t argue about the price because I don’t know how much the tip on the actual price means to them. 

In the end, it’s not about the items or the monetary value attached to them, but the understanding and compassion we can offer to them. Each encounter, every fleeting moment, holds a narrative waiting to be acknowledged and cherished. We may not be able to buy every item or solve every problem, but we can help by offering a kind word. Our actions, no matter how small, can make a difference in someone else’s story.

 

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