The Story of Prossy

Not far from our house is a small local market area. There are always things being sold there – fruits and vegetables, clothes, hot food. It is a buzzing place, I like it a lot. In the afternoons it is full of vans and bodas and people out and about. The sellers sit on the side of the red brown pot-holed road,  their wares laid out either haphazardly or very precisely (depending on the personality of the seller) on a tarpaulin or an old sheet. Crockery, shoes, hats, towels, books – anything you can imagine, they sell it. The fancy clothes are hung out on large coathangers, the rest are heaped – or neatly folded (depending on the seller) – into large piles that you can dig through. The clothes are second hand, imported from the States, or else are factory seconds – slightly imperfect. There are hits and misses – most are misses, but if you dig deep enough you can end up with some top labels in good condition.

As twilight descends the buzz continues. More food stalls appear, bathed in the golden aura of the candles that light their cooking. There is no electricity nor street lights available, so each stall sets up candles to see. They don't even use many – just one candle per stall. They set the candle on their little wooden tables and then set up their small charcoal cookers. They place small woks or pots on top of the coal and cook the food on that. Charcoal cookers are the main method of cooking, even in the home. They fry, boil, steam, roast and even deep fry foods on these small cookers, about the same diameter as a regular frypan.

The night market is a gorgeous scene to behold. The depth of the night's blackness, the warm orb of flame attracting you like a moth, shadows dancing and jumping across the sweat-coated faces of the hard working cooks, the sizzle of oil in a wok, the aroma of smoky charcoal, the odd pungent whiff of diesel, the chatter of the women selling vegetables talking amongst themselves, the warm, gentle evening temperature, and the pyrotechnic display of electrical sparks from the mechanic's workshops that run parallel to the market, hurredly fixing up the most decrepit of vans to make them somewhat road-worthy for tomorrow. I love to get a rolex from a stall closeby to the mechanic's shops. While waiting for them to prepare my rolex on their charcoal cooker, I love to peer in past the sparks and flashes of light and get a glimpse of what they are repairing. A hole in the floor? Unhinged door? Installing suspension (for a change)? Cut brakes? Broken wheel axle? My mind is endlessly amused with the possibilities, well, until my food is ready anyway.  

Every tuesday they have an even larger market. I like to stroll through it, deep into the heart of the market. As you walk further off the road, the paving gives way to dust. Rail Tracks run through the center of the market. The sellers arrange their sheets and tarpaulins directly onto the tracks and then dump large piles of clothes out for you to pick through. You can find things very cheap here, even as a stand-out muzungu I still managed to be offered good prices. I slowly meandered down the tracks, halfheartedly leafing through the odd pile of clothes to be obliging. I hadn't intended to spend anything, just wanted to get a feel of the pricing so I could know for next time. (As a muzungu I never buy too hastily to ensure I can find out if am being ripped off or not). I had  gone quite a way and was about to turn back when I met Prossy.

Prossy was a quiet, unassuming Ugandan woman. She was sitting on her tarpaulin with her legs neatly tucked behind her in a very ladylike manner. “500 shillings!” she called to me. “Everything 500 shillings!”

“Everything?”
“Everything”

She was so gentle and non pushy – unlike the overenthusiastic male sellers. 500 shillings is equivalent to 20 cents US. It was the cheapest price I had ever come across in any of the markets I had been to. I decided to take a look. While I hunted through the enormous pile of clothes, Prossy helped me to find nice tops. We made a small pile to one side and then she helped me to weed out what I would get and what I wouldn't. Despite the clothes being ridiculously cheap in Western standards, my budget is most definitely not in Western standards, and to be honest, 500 shillings was pretty much the only price I could afford for clothes at the time. However, I was in desperate need of clothes, I was surviving on the dregs of my poor used-and-abused backpacking clothes – most of which had been given to me by charitable travellers who had taken pity on me. I bought four tops. Prossy was lovely. She was honest and not out to deceive or swindle me. At my request, she even accompanied me through the maze of the market to show me certain places selling other items of clothing. I felt such love and admiration for this woman. I vowed to myself to come back and support her again. I left the market with a bag of tops and the satisfaction of a fair deal.

As I walked home, other sellers tried to ply their wares on me – at hilariously hiked muzungu prices.

“Muzungu!! You want shoe?”
“How much?”
“Good price for you”
“How much?”
“70,000 shillings!”

I couldn't help but smile
“No way!” I laughed as I walked on. Behind me, I could hear the man desperately calling out to me, a new price in every sentence. I blissfully ignored him and contently trudged on.