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My favourite fruit vendor, Bethsheba, has been missing in action since kanjo folks rid our streets of hawkers. Her business premises, without any irony, were a wheelbarrow bedecked with succulent fruits.
She had a way of stacking up bright-coloured mangoes so that the setting sun flooded her wares to look even more enticing. Put simply, she turned a wheelbarrow, a simple hunk of metal, into a mobile, artistic installation that fed her family.
By nightfall, this enticing display would disappear behind a veil of black polythene, wrapped up to ensure overnight safety and miraculously, retain freshness for sale the next day. Come rain, come sunshine, Bethsheba was guaranteed to open her business and wait for customers.
Not anymore. Over the last week or two, I noticed Bethsheba’s colourful display had disappeared and had now been replaced with a stump of concrete. Some folks are so determined to sell cement and chuma that our nation is a virtual construction site.
To my relief, Bethsheba called me this week: “Leo nina avocado smart,” she announced. She meant she had the indigenous variety that I prefer. She’s now selling fruits by calling old customers and organising deliveries, which she’s been doing efficiently.
I don’t know why so many markets being built will ever get to the Bethshebas of this world, now that she’s been kicked off the kerb that she had used to eke out a living, and all her initiatives continue come a cropper. She’s ready to work her back off to raise her twin daughters that she got while still in high school.
How do I know all this? Because it’s my business to know. And I’m invested in her success. And I can attest that her business environment is so volatile that there is no way of knowing if she will manage to earn a living in this city.
Bethsheba is one of the small people we treat as vermin, conveniently kicked to the kerb, or gently embraced to our bosoms, and are hurting from the small-mindedness of those who operate our cities as though it’s a private business. Bure kabisa.
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My favourite fruit vendor, Bethsheba, has been missing in action since kanjo folks rid our streets of hawkers. Her business premises, without any irony, were a wheelbarrow bedecked with succulent fruits.
She had a way of stacking up bright-coloured mangoes so that the setting sun flooded her wares to look even more enticing. Put simply, she turned a wheelbarrow, a simple hunk of metal, into a mobile, artistic installation that fed her family.
By nightfall, this enticing display would disappear behind a veil of black polythene, wrapped up to ensure overnight safety and miraculously, retain freshness for sale the next day. Come rain, come sunshine, Bethsheba was guaranteed to open her business and wait for customers.
Not anymore. Over the last week or two, I noticed Bethsheba’s colourful display had disappeared and had now been replaced with a stump of concrete. Some folks are so determined to sell cement and chuma that our nation is a virtual construction site.
To my relief, Bethsheba called me this week: “Leo nina avocado smart,” she announced. She meant she had the indigenous variety that I prefer. She’s now selling fruits by calling old customers and organising deliveries, which she’s been doing efficiently.
I don’t know why so many markets being built will ever get to the Bethshebas of this world, now that she’s been kicked off the kerb that she had used to eke out a living, and all her initiatives continue come a cropper. She’s ready to work her back off to raise her twin daughters that she got while still in high school.
How do I know all this? Because it’s my business to know. And I’m invested in her success. And I can attest that her business environment is so volatile that there is no way of knowing if she will manage to earn a living in this city.
Bethsheba is one of the small people we treat as vermin, conveniently kicked to the kerb, or gently embraced to our bosoms, and are hurting from the small-mindedness of those who operate our cities as though it’s a private business. Bure kabisa.
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By Peter Kimani