To market, to market

In Africa, markets are the beating heart of any village, town, or city. In the hours before dawn, when the air is cool and the streets are quiet, traders set up their stalls. They pull tarps from wooden tables and arrange their displays of produce, homewares, or whatever else they are selling. From the smallest village stalls to the gargantuan, sprawling arcades of Africa’s megacities, there is always something awaiting the adventurous traveller.

Cosa Market – Conakry, Guinea

At the end of a weeklong strike in June 2006, Conakry’s Cosa Market has roared back to life. After a week of helicopters buzzing overhead, echoes of gunfire through deserted streets, and rumours of a coup, the Cosa Market’s resurgence is a sign that life has returned to some sort of normal.

On the footpaths in front of the market, street vendors brew pots of tea, while plantains and donuts float and sizzle in pans of oil. Inside, the masses of wooden framed stalls, which days ago resembled the skeletal carcass of a dead animal, are full and thriving. Tomatoes, bananas, and okra are piled high, their arrangement unintentionally reflecting the design of the national flag. Elsewhere, the slimy scales of freshly caught fish reflect in the sunlight, while bloodied goat heads stare into the abyss. Vendors call out enthusiastically, eager to make up for the lost days of trade. A young boy carrying a red bucket approaches me. He removes a cardboard covering and offers me the live tortoise that is scraping against the smooth insides, ‘Non merci,’ I say, declining the unusual offer, and he disappears into the crowd. It’s good to have you back, Cosa.

Kampala, Uganda

In the market region of Kamapala, a morass of buses negotiate their way through the cramped station. The creep forward by inches, guided by the tapping of hands on their rusted exterior and shouted instruction from behind. From afar it appears a frustrating and impossible process. Yet somehow, it works.

At the eastern end of the bus station a local telco has setup a promotional stage. Employees of Zain are bouncing from one end of the stage to another, microphones in hand, hollering through distorted, crackling speakers. Excited onlookers are invited on stage to receive credit vouchers and Zain paraphernalia. I watch for a moment and as I turn to leave, hear, ‘Hey, Mzungu!’ The host has spotted me through the crowd and calls me to the stage. His companions applaud and rev up the crowd as I climb the metal steps.

‘Where are you from?’ he asks, ‘how do you find Uganda? What is your program here?

I answer his questions and am then handed an oversized bright pink Zain t-shirt. He revs up the crowd again and I exit stage left.

Kasbah des Oudayas – Rabat, Morocco

‘Where are you going, sir?’ he asks, as he skips up behind me.

‘To find something to eat,’ I reply, walking out of the Kasbah des Oudayas.

‘I know a good place. Can I take you there?’

‘Ok.’

At the rooftop restaurant, I dine on a plate of lamb and salad, while Hicham orders chips and a beer. The Atlantic Ocean glistens in the evening sun, and the colours of Rabat glow in these final moments of sunshine. Hicham dulls the mood with his inane small talk, peppering me with questions about marriage, life abroad, and whether I want hashish. After finishing my meal, I ask for the bill and put my share of dirhams on the silver plate. Hicham looks at me quizzically.

‘My friend, I have no money. You can pay for me?’ he pleads.

It is a moment I have been waiting for, having known his game from the start.

‘Why did you order if you have no money?’

A long list of excuses and appeals follow, and having heard it all before, I hand my money to the waiter and leave.

Unsurprisingly, and quickly, Hicham finds more than enough dirhams in his pockets. He trots down the stairs after me and stalks me as I walk back to the hotel. Along the way he shares his thoughts about my mother and tells me things that he will do to her, and me. I ignore the tirade and continue walking, sticking to the main roads. Eventually he grows bored, stops, turns around and disappears into the fading light, probably to try and swindle another traveller.

Bamako, Mali

In Bamako, fishermen glide along the surface of the snaking Niger River, wrenching nets filled with flapping, convulsing, glistening silver catches. The Grand Marché is a short distance away and is where the morning’s catches are transported. Dried, salted, fried, and fresh, their glassy eyes and blank expressions stare up at shoppers. The market is also home to bloody cuts of goat, muted chickens with their feet bound, plastic kettles and metal homewares, pirated DVDs, and most interestingly, fetish items. Tucked away in a corner of the Grand Marché, an old wooden table is adorned with hides, heads, and a bag of red kola nuts. The head of a monkey balances on the edge of the table, its skin rotting away, exposing the skull. On each side of the monkey head is a cat’s head and a badger, their expressions frozen in time. The badger’s snarl hints at one final defence. The vendor picks up an alligator head and invites me to run my fingers along its remaining teeth, demonstrating with his own hand. Surrounding the various heads is the hide of a cheetah, the skin of the alligator, and assorted random furs.

Fetish items in the Bamako’s Grand Marché, Mali

‘Anything you want, monsieur,’ he begins, ‘for ze good luck, for ze sickness, for ze curse and,’ he says, picking up a handful of kola nuts and dropping them one by one into the pile, ‘for ze woman!’

Tengeru market, Tanzania

Mitumba markets proliferate throughout Tanzania. The trade in second hand clothes is enormous, and Tengeru market is one of the busiest. On the outskirts of Arusha, near USA River (pron. Oosa), buyers and sellers gather on Saturday mornings. Pile after pile of second-hand clothes are found dotted throughout the marketplace, with vendors sitting atop wooden stalls as they watch the crowds. Mothers, young and old, rummage through mounds of children’s clothes and the stacks of handbags and shoes. Young boys rifle amongst piles of t-shirts, most of which are emblazoned with the names of US Universities and sports teams.

These markets are a blessing and a curse for Africa. On the one hand, they provide much needed income for low skilled workers, and cheap clothing for people who live a hand to mouth existence. Yet these markets, which are found all over the continent, are the end result of a consumerist culture addicted to fast fashion, with Africa the dumping ground for changing trends, impulse purchases, and over consumption. Many garments in the mitumba trade end their life in Africa, causing environmental destruction and waste disposal problems. They also suffocate local manufacturers, who cannot complete with the endless supply of cheap imports. Many African governments have promised to combat the trade in second hand clothes, yet none have taken substantial steps to ending it.

Second hand shoes for sale in Arusha, Tanzania

Kumasi, Ghana

The centre of the once mighty Ashanti empire, the jewel in the crown of modern day Kumasi, is the gargantuan Kejetia market. One of the largest open air markets on the continent, Kejetia hosts an estimated ten thousand stalls, with traders coming from as far as Cameroon and Senegal. Anything that someone could ever want, though often never need, can be found within the labyrinthine mishmash of stalls – wooden artifacts, Nollywood movies and musical instruments; fresh fruits, dried fish, bloodied goat heads, brightly coloured shawls, second-hand imported clothing, and an endless supply of imported plastic junk from China. Negotiating a path through the cramped laneways and alleyways of Kejetia is to brush against ample round backsides, pickpocketing thieves, women with buckets on their heads, and couriers ferrying goods on wooden carts. Those who hesitate, those who are unsure how to read the movement of a crowd, run the risk of being bowled over, chastised, or contemptuously shoved out of the way. After a few hours of roaming Kejetia, it feels less like a jewel in Kumasi’s crown and more like a capitalist stain on the soul of a once great civilisation.

Odede, Kenya

On the shores of Lake Victoria lies Odede, a quaint little village an hour’s drive from Kisumu in Western Kenya. In contrast to Kejetia, with its endless maze of ten thousand stalls, Odede’s market takes about ten minutes to circumnavigate. Fish, hauled from Africa’s largest lake is abundant, as are locally grown fruits and vegetables, bananas, potatoes, carrots, tomatoes, and onions. In the mornings, chapatis are fried atop hot plates and served with steaming cups of tea, while in the afternoon, samosas sizzle inside pools of oil. On weekends, men, women and children rummage through piles of second-hand clothes and the only pub in the area broadcasts games of English football.

Nkhata Bay, Malawi

On the shores of Lake Malawi, the markets of Nkhata Bay are, unsurprisingly awash with mounds of fish. On of the largest freshwater lakes in the world, Lake Malawi has more species living in its waters than any other lake on earth. In the markets of the lakeside town, wooden tables are shaded by tarpaulins and umbrellas. Atop, stacks of cyprinids, known locally as kapenta or matemba, lay alongside piles of tilapia, perch and catfish.

At the edge of the marketplace is a stall with wooden artifacts. The men who sit behind the tables are flanked by armed police. My curiosity is piqued, and I wander over. One of the men explains that as part of his rehabilitation at Nkhata Bay prison he is taking part in a woodwork program. Every Saturday morning, he and his fellow inmates are escorted to the market where they sell their handicrafts. The funds are then invested into an account which will be accessible upon their release.

‘You like anything?’ he asks.

‘This looks good,’ I reply, holding up a bowl engraved with a lion.

‘Thank you, sir,’ as he wraps it in newspaper.

‘So, when will you be out?’ I enquire.

‘Hmm, maybe next year,’ he replies hopefully.

Monrovia, Liberia

A piercing whistle startles the crowd. It sends them scattering, and they grab what they can as they flee. At the top end of Front Street in Monrovia, this illegal market is regularly swarmed by police. At the sounding of the whistle, the vendors scoop up bundles of counterfeit clothes and bags and dash into the surrounding neighbourhood, sheltering in alcoves and compounds. The police snatch anyone who is too slow to react. Their items are then confiscated, and the police slap them on the head or whack them with their batons. Opportunistic looters hover at the edges of the scene. In the wake of Liberia’s two civil wars, these illegal markets are all that Monrovia’s citizens can do to put food on the table.

Lusaka, Zambia

The makeshift stalls of Kamwala Market are setup in the hours before sunrise. The wooden scaffold shacks are covered in tattered tarpaulins and inside, the vendors organise second hand clothes, fruit and vegetables, cuts of meat, and meals. On tables scattered outside, piles of shoes are stacked high, appearing like a display from Auschwitz.

On a Sunday morning, I visit Kamwala Market for breakfast and order a plate of fish and rice. A television blares in the corner, and an evangelical preacher is sermonising to a raucous audience. Striding across the stage he bellows, chastises and implores the crowd. He rambles about sin, damnation, hellfire, and repentance. The stall owner notices my amusement, as I chuckle between mouthfuls. She admonishes me before launching into her own plea for me to believe.

‘I will pray for you,’ she promises.

I finish my cup of tea, and leave, still a sinner.

In Your Honour: The Manimahesh Yatra