Setting the Scene:
The Ugandan sun dipped below the horizon, painting the dusty road a fiery orange as Tejas and I cruised back to Kitgum. We'd spent the weekend exploring Gulu, a bustling town known for its vibrant markets and rich cultural history. Tejas, my ever-reliable Indian companion in Kitgum, was his usual chatty self, peppering the drive with anecdotes and observations about Ugandan life. He had a knack for finding humour in the everyday, and his infectious laughter filled the car.
Tejas and the Seller:
Tejas, a man with a mischievous glint in his eyes and a shock of unruly black hair, was a constant source of amusement. He had a grocery shop in the town and I met him as soon as arrived. Kitgum being a small town, everyone knew each other and my colleagues recommended I to meet another Indian felllow. We became good friends, and our shared love for good food and lively conversation quickly formed a bond. He was a patient guide to navigating the local vegetarian scene, introducing me to hidden gems like the roadside vendor we were about to encounter.
The vendor himself was a man etched with the lines of experience. His smile, though weathered, held a warmth that instantly drew you in. He sat beneath a makeshift stall, a colourful tapestry stretched overhead providing shade from the afternoon sun. A pile of golden-brown fried cassava sat beside him, their tempting aroma filling the air.
The Internal Dialogue and Negotiation:
My stomach rumbled in agreement. As a vegetarian in Northern Uganda, especially outside the larger towns, food options were often limited. Fried cassava, a staple in the region, and the occasional avocado were my saving graces. Spotting the vendor, I felt a surge of excitement. Perfect timing for a snack!
However, when I saw the meagre amount of cassava remaining, a pang of guilt shot through me. Was I buying out his entire stock, leaving him with nothing for the rest of the day? Tejas, sensing my hesitation, chuckled and nudged me towards the vendor.
The Seller's Explanation:
"Mwalimu" (teacher), I greeted the vendor in Acholi, the local language Tejas had patiently been teaching me. "Wanni cassava?" (Do you have cassava?).
He flashed a smile, revealing a missing front tooth. "Wan okel" (There's a little), he replied, gesturing to the remaining pieces.
I snatched them all up, the warm cassava a welcome treat. But then my gaze fell upon the avocados – a beautiful display of 15-20, their green skin smooth and inviting. "Ndi wiye dic win" (I'll take them all!), I declared, already picturing a week of delicious avocado toast.
The vendor's smile faltered. He hesitated, a flicker of anxiety crossing his face. "Ngai, ngai" (No, no), he stammered, shaking his head. "Peke win ki dic win ki all" (I can't sell them all).
Confused, I waited for him to explain. "Pe win ki wac?" (What will I do?), he continued, his voice laced with worry. "Mal pe win ki gicel" (My wife will scold me). "Ki lac win ki wiye pe win ki dic win ki all" (She won't believe one customer bought them all).
The Lesson Learned:
His explanation struck a chord within me. Here I was, focused on getting a good deal and satisfying my immediate craving, completely oblivious to the impact my purchase might have on his day. He wasn't just selling avocados; he was creating a routine, a rhythm to his life. Perhaps the sale of the avocados secured his income for the evening, or maybe it was the act of interacting with customers, the simple exchange that brought him a sense of purpose. The thought of his wife jokingly (or maybe not so jokingly) questioning his ability to sell his entire stock brought a smile to my lips.
Respecting his philosophy, I proposed, "Win ki dic win ki peke" (I'll take just five). His face lit up with relief, a genuine smile returning. "Peke!", he exclaimed, happily bagging the avocados. "Win ki laka!" (Thank you!).
We exchanged a few more pleasantries, the setting sun casting long shadows across the dusty road. As I drove away with my bounty, the taste of the avocados wasn't the only thing lingering on my palate. It was the unexpected life lesson – a reminder to consider the ripple effect of our actions and to appreciate the simple rhythms that give life meaning.
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