Pink Shoes. - by Trixie Wrights

Have you ever bought something and almost landed yourself in trouble? Have you ever gone to the market and returned home with your heart racing like it was about to jump out of your chest? No? Just me? I've had my fair share of unfortunate purchases. The French curls from a certain brand, the press on nails from another, but tonight, let's talk about what I bought when I was younger. Sit back, relax, and let me tell you about one of the most embarrassing experiences of my childhood. I was about eleven or twelve years old when I went to the market with my mum and my brother to buy some school supplies. It was a pretty normal day, and fortunately, it was market day, which meant we got things at affordable prices. We bought new shoes, a schoolbag, and stationery. I remember getting something I really wanted. And honestly, that should have been the end of the story. A successful shopping trip. A happy child. New school supplies. Everybody goes home in peace. But apparently, peace was not on the agenda that day. When we got to Sango, I volunteered to carry the bag home. Biggest mistake of my preteen life! I promise I'm not stalling. I'm just traumatized. If you're familiar with Sango Ota Market, you'd understand that pedestrians and market sellers are practically one with the road. Walking through that place can feel like an extreme sport. There is barely enough space to move comfortably without having to dodge an oncoming vehicle, a fellow pedestrian, or somebody's merchandise. And because the market is the market, the little space available for walking is often squeezed between the wares of men and women selling their goods. You have to navigate your way through carefully, watching where you step and trying not to disturb anybody's business. Now, remember that I was carrying a heavy Ghana-Must-Go bag? Can you see where this is going? Please, don't make me say it. So, my mum and brother were ahead of me as we made our way to the bus stop. Considering the human traffic, they were about three minutes ahead. Three minutes might not sound like much, but in Sango market, it is enough time for somebody to disappear into another dimension. I'd completely lost sight of them in the crowd. And there I was, a little girl carrying a heavy bag, trying to navigate the market without causing trouble. Why was I behind them in the first place? Good question. I have absolutely no idea. All I know is that I was minding my business, walking along that narrow path between people's wares, when— Before you know am... I don't know what the trend is, but before you know am... MY BAG HIT AN OLD WOMAN'S TRAY OF SMOKED FISH, AND ALL OF THEM FELL INTO THE MUD. EVERY. SINGLE. ONE. The smoked fish. The mud. The disaster. And my mum and brother? Still ahead of me, lost somewhere in the sea of people. I wish I could tell you I handled the situation with grace and maturity. I wish I could say I calmly apologised, helped the woman gather her fish, and walked away with my dignity intact. But I was eleven or twelve, and I had just watched my Ghana-Must-Go bag destroy somebody's livelihood, or at least a portion of her day's sales. My mum had to pay for the fish. And me? I received a verbal punishment that I have never quite recovered from. The woman hurled insults at me, and I stood there trying to process what was happening. I didn't understand much of what she was saying, but I knew she was cursing in Yoruba. And if you've ever heard an angry Yoruba woman curse, you know that understanding every single word is not always necessary to understand the gravity of your situation. I was finished. My ancestors were probably being summoned. My future generations might have been included. I don't know. I was too young to translate the full extent of my disgrace. All I knew was that I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. And the funniest part? I had volunteered to carry that bag. Nobody forced me. Nobody threatened me. Nobody said I had to prove my strength. I simply saw a Ghana-Must-Go bag and decided that carrying it was my calling. What a calling! Now, let us talk about the shoes. Oh, the shoes! The black school shoes and the pink sneakers were my compensation for the trauma. Those shoes were the reason I had gone to the market in the first place, and I was determined to enjoy them despite everything that had happened. I think I bought something else, perhaps an egg roll. But no, I don't think I even ate it. Can you blame me? How was I supposed to enjoy an egg roll when I'd just been publicly disgraced by a bag and a tray of smoked fish? I had bigger problems. I had memories to suppress. I had insults to forget. I had a wounded childhood dignity to nurse. And all this happened because of shoes that weren't even worth ₦5,000. LESS THAN FIVE THOUSAND NAIRA! I nearly lost my life, my peace, and whatever little dignity an eleven-year-old girl could possess over shoes that cost less than ₦5,000. Okay, perhaps I didn't literally almost lose my life, but at the time, the woman's insults made me feel like I wouldn't survive the afternoon. And to this day, one question remains unanswered: Why did I volunteer to carry that bag? What was I trying to prove? Who was I trying to impress? Because if there is one lesson I took away from that experience, it is this: never underestimate the destructive potential of a Ghana-Must-Go bag in the hands of an overconfident preteen. And if your mum ever asks you to help carry something home from the market, please, by all means, help her. But if you volunteer, make sure you know what you're signing up for. Because sometimes, the price of your new school shoes is not the money you pay at the market. Sometimes, it is the smoked fish you scatter in the mud, the money your mother has to pay, the curses you don't fully understand, and the childhood trauma that follows you for years. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the story of how I went to Sango market for school supplies and came home with a lifelong fear of heavy Ghana-Must-Go bags. The shoes were cute, though. Worth it? Absolutely not.

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