The road to the market smells of guavas and gossip.
Traders hold court, their voices like morning drums:
“Come, sister, the okra is fresh today!”
A child weaves through the crowd,
a cloth-wrapped basket balanced on her head
like an offering to the gods of plenty.
Beside the spice stall, two old men argue—
pepper versus thyme,
their laughter bridging decades of rivalry.
Above it all, the sun glares like a persistent buyer,
demanding its share of sweat and smiles.
In the shade of the palm-wine vendor,
I see the mirror of my village:
The young, the wise,
the journeyed, the just-arrived,
all stitched into this tapestry of barter and belonging.
By nightfall, the road to the market empties,
leaving only echoes and footprints,
each one a story yet to be told.
