My grandmother tells the story of how I frequently escaped the attentions of my caregivers as a toddler. I would wander off to Tesano Market to go shopping, armed with a little basket and without money. Invariably, some market woman would recognize Kobby from the house up the street and carry me back home.
So far as I could recall, the Tesano Market was situated about 75 metres from my grandmother's house and was absolutely massive. One could walk till their legs hurt and still not see all of it. But then again, I was only about five years old in those days.
This December, I visited my grandmother and out of curiosity, went to the market for the first time in about 15 years. Several things struck me about the market: first, it is absolutely tiny. Even at a saunter, I could walk the length of it in under three minutes. Second, I didn't recognize anybody; certainly nobody remembered me.
But the more profound experience was how much I stood out. Even though I wore only a tee-shirt and cargo shorts, compared to everyone else, I looked dressed up and immediately felt out of place. I approached the orange seller and spoke loudly, switching between Twi and Fante to demonstrate my oneness, "I'd like some oranges, please." However, I quickly lost whatever gains I had made when I handed the lady the lady a ¢10 bill for 25p worth of oranges. "I'm not sure I have enough change for you," she said, as she rummaged through bags and boxes. She eventually took some money from a nearby trader to make up the difference. How could I possibly relate to this market woman who probably made less than ¢5 that day? How could she relate to me?
On my way back home, I walked by a stall that I remembered from my childhood days. And right there, behind stacks of old shoes and sandals, in the same spot he had been sitting, doing the same thing he had been doing for well over 20 years, a cobbler with tired eyes and a very familiar face. "How are you? It's me, Kobby." He paused briefly, searching his memory. Then his eyes lit up, and he reached for a handshake. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, "So, what did you bring me for Chrismas? No beer money?"
"Well, actually, all I have on me is this money I need to get back home," I lied. I was driving my mother's car that day. Nonetheless, I dug ¢7 out of my pockets to prove I really didn't have much. Quick as a flash, he snatched ¢3 right out of my hand. "Thank you," he said, beaming.
Before this past holiday, I enjoyed feeling connected with the average Ghanaian. After all, from an economic standpoint, I grew up just a few notches above them. My visit to the Tesano Market, however, showed me just how far-removed I am from the lives of the ordinary people. How connected can I really be to people whose daily income is less than the cost of a drink at Rhapsody's? Then again, do I need to be exactly on their level to understand how difficult their lives must be? The only thing I can say for certain is that the gulf between the haves and the have-nots is astronomical.... It feels unjust.
