A Walk to the Shop

On Saturday afternoon, after the longest shower since November (1 hour), I went for a walk to the shop. I then decided to write about it.
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I come out of our apartment, which overlooks the road past 'New Land', down the stairs, through our part of the compound, greet the guard and out the gate. Lucy at the fruit & veg stall outside the gate greets me and I return the greeting. However, I don't need anything from her today. I notice some lovely looking bananas on her stall and remind myself we have plenty, donated by our neighbour who cut down their banana tree last week (they only flower once and they do grow back).

Music begins to fill the air – a local church choir practising. If it's the Presbyterians, they'll be done inside a couple of hours. If it's the Pentecostals it's a sign there will be a late-night evangelistic rally.

I turn left and notice the dry, baked mud that forms the road is looking a little less baked than it has been. This past fortnight has seen around six hours of rain – as much as in the past three months combined. Dry season is coming to an end and there's a noticeable coolness to the air. The grey sky suggests there may be more to come. I walk on and notice the field to my right is a light shade of green. Life is returning to it. Three months ago it was full of 8-foot tall maize plants.

A teenage girl walks past with headphones, shaking her head in time to the music that I cannot hear.

Two ladies are walking towards me with children. One is wearing a traditional fabric and has a baby tied to her back, it's legs poking out either side of her waist. The other is in jeans and has a bundle of garments balanced on her head. I return their “Bonsoirs”. The children stare up at me while the lady in jeans says something to the lady in traditional dress, who looks at me. I have no idea what they said.

The one-pump filling station to my left has a bush taxi parked outside. I pass a number of wooden buildings on my right that house a seamstress, a hairdresser and a t-shirt printer. A lady is in the hairdresser's having extensions tied in.

To my right, a couple of half-naked children are chasing each other beside a domestic grain-grinder that sits outside their house. Their mother is chatting to the lady who operates a 'call-box' from a table underneath an umbrella, at the junction of this road and the main road. A 'call-box' is someone sitting at a table with a mobile phone and who lets other people pay to use it.

I reach the junction and stand while waiting for a break in the traffic. This road can be really busy. Several taxis slow up beside me and I shake my head to decline them. To be expected when you cross the road at a taxi-stop, I suppose! The taxis are the yellow Toyotas that make up the backbone of this city's public transport. Imagine the stereotypical New York scene of a road brimming with yellow taxis, except the cars are mostly 10-year-old yellow Toyota Corollas.

Standing there, I survey the buildings that will possibly not be there for much longer. A restaurant; a couple of convenience stores; a pretty little kindergarten, painted in all sorts of bright colours; the clinic offering free AIDS tests (last month it was circumcisions!); the tyre depot (smaller than our living room); a cobbler; several dressmakers... they all have a red 'X' painted on them, indicating they are due for demolition to make way for an improved road. Apparently the area was already part of a plan when the buildings went up, built by people who were taking a chance they could make a living and get their investment back before the road came. They should have gone by now but there's been a stay of execution. Apparently the contractor didn't follow the rules in giving them notice to move on. “Apparently” here refers to the amount of word-of-mouth involved in communicating information. What is certain, is that the traders are making a reasonable living and don't seem to be in a hurry to move.

I step to the right to avoid a brand new Lexus 4x4 turning into the junction. It costs around £50,000 in the UK – a life-time's wages for a lot of people here. It's safe to assume the driver does not own one of the shops with a red X!

I cross the street, walk past some parked cars and go towards the shop owned by a man from Somalia. Unlike a few traders, he makes a point of speaking slowly in simple French. It's a bit like GCSE role-play all over again, but that's my limit. I'd love to ask him his story – did he leave before the war to see a bit of the world? Did he get out because he had no desire to fight? Why and how did he end up in Cameroon – on the opposite side of the continent from where he started?

A taxi-driver comes into the shopnd asks for change of a 10,000 CFA note, the highest-value note in circulation. His polite request is politely declined. Imagine going into your local Spar and asking for a £100 note to be changed for fivers.

I leave the shop and notice six-and-a-half-foot of lanky white guy wearing a cream-coloured linen suit and a tartan Tam O'Shanter upon his head. And why not?

I cross and walk on. Two guys are sat outside a house talking and one of the half-dressed children is now totally undressed and being bathed in a basin outside the house by his mother. The call-box lady is alone. A bright yellow bird is foraging in the empty maize field. The choir's song sounds melodious and sweet, but I have no idea what they are singing.

I re-enter the SIL housing compound, greet the guard and climb the stairs.