Here's a Story

Now, I did not write this today. The process actually began 7-8 months ago, and I have worked on it ever since. Perhaps you will find it interesting. (Note: This story is fictional)

The Street Vendor

I walked up to Ayo’s table, looking to buy something to send to my sister Jocelyn who was getting married back in the States in May. Ayo wore cotton robes of purple and yellow adinkra cloth, a purple, cylindrical hat with a red tassel falling across his youthful, black face, all typical attire for a salesman from Ghana. Another African salesman I knew had once explained to me the spiritual significance of the adinkra; he had even told me some of the names of the symbols woven into the cloth, but I had forgotten most of them. As Ayo conversed with a fellow salesman, I noticed he was not as loud and obnoxious as the other street vendors. He had a three-inch scar along his jaw line, and a dimple creased his cheek as he spoke.

Quickly scanning Ayo’s various pieces of merchandise, I saw, nestled among tribal masks and incense of poppy, cinnamon, and cannabis, a carved, wooden statue of a shriveled, naked woman playing a flute to a snake curled around her leg. Gorgeous. I could have bought Jocelyn a soccer jersey or a sweatshirt or a pair of shoes, but a fertility goddess costs a lot less than a pair of Italian stilettos, and I knew the statue would be more noteworthy than any of the bagel toasters or cookie pans she would get from our relatives. I picked up the statue, running my fingers along the snake’s writhing coils. Sighing heavily, I put it back on the table in front of me.

Ayo noticed my interest and immediately left his conversation to make the sale.

“Which one?” he asked innocently. I pointed at the wooden woman.

“Quella lá, per favore. La statua che sta suonando il flauto. Con il serpente.”

“I don’t speak Italian,” he said.“Io non parlare Italiano.”

That was obvious. But if it could help me get a better price, I was going to speak to him in Italian. It would make Ayo feel uncomfortable, and whenever you can take a street vendor out of his area of comfort, you automatically have the advantage. Street vendors have a knack for making you feel stupid, and every encounter I had had with one ended with the same stark feeling of idiocy. I wasn’t going to lose this one.

“Voglio quella statua là. Grazie, molto gentile.”

He looked at me, suspicious. Then, he picked up the statue.

“You want this one? 15 euros, please.”

I shook my head. “No, non ce la faccio.”

His hand moved to his face, his thumb moving up and down his scarred jaw line. His purple shirt sleeve fell slightly, exposing two small adinkra tattoos on his lower forearm. I recognized one as the symbol for love, osram ne nsoromma, “the moon and the star.” I couldn’t quite place the other one, but it sort of resembled the hot pads my mom used to crochet when I was little.

After a minute—it seemed—of deliberation, Ayo nodded softly. “Allora, dieci. Ten.”

He could do better than that.

“Ce l’ho cinque,” I said.

“No,” he said. “I need dieci.”

“Ce l’ho solo cinque,” I said again firmly. And I pulled the fiver from my wallet, placing it on the table and reaching for the statue.

Ayo’s eyes darted from the money to the photo of my family sticking out from behind my bus pass, then back to the five euro bill. Almost protectively, he cradled the carved woman closer to his body and quickly replied with “No, dieci.”

“Cinque.”

“Dieci.”

“Cinque.”

“Sette.”

“Cinque.”

“Sei.”

“Cinque.”

He shook his head tiredly. I turned to leave, putting the bill back in my coat pocket.

“Wait. Un attimo,” he said hurriedly.

He pondered for a second longer, then he slowly held the statue out to me with a sad, almost desperate look, the same look I used to give my brother whenever he stole my baseball bat and hid it from me. Ayo’s outstretched arms revealed the tattoos once again. Two words flashed through my mind, and suddenly I remembered what the other tattoo meant. It was kete pa, “a good bed,” an adinkra symbol of marriage.

“Cinque,” he said slowly.

I slowly took the merchandise from Ayo and pushed the five into his open palm and walked away, my head down, staring blankly at the statue I had just acquired. She stared back at me, her gaze cutting through me, the snake coiled around her leg baring its fangs as if preparing to strike at my whitened knuckles.

“I won,” I muttered, shifting my gaze to the garbage-covered sidewalk, unable to return the statue’s stare. “I won.”