casket of the economy

The other day was standing in the market or is it a casket of the economy. Everyone who walked through its doors looked like he gone for a funeral their starving shopping bags looking like wreaths for the grave. A pilgrimage for the brave obeying a ritual whose we fathom to know but no one can cram for we all fumbling for the crumbs.

I saw mouths moving but no words came out, their teeth glistening like maize affected by weevils with movements all over the place but no motion taking place. So many colours were on display my eyes gnawing at the rays but my tongue rejected them like a political opportunist rejecting a blind motion in the meeting. The kiosk stands were multiplied in place like millipede legs for it was a race for more space but few sellers were available

their stands creaking under heavy weight of prices not goods there were sellers than buyers no conversation like the good old days just mumbling man or woman they held their chins from falling their eyes staring at the ground but the only thing on the ground was a chicken nibbling on non-existent maize bead after bead they nibbled away this picture was blurred by the arrival of a stray dog its tummy looking more empty than the purses of the traders its ears hanging lower than the hopes of the traders the wind blowing and a woman appeared in the sun at the extreme end she was swinging a polythene chasing flies away the most loyal customers her next to her was a heap of yesterdays produce turned to waste some boys ran by and knocked her purse hanging miserably on her waist

hiccupping two sickly coins she bent to pick them up when a note was laid on to her stall the words inscribed that even the blind could read the figures large enough that even fools could do the math but the sign off not even a pregnant woman in labour could bear. Her rent was over due


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