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Angel Ralph
13 days agoIf you listened very closely, the market sang at noon: the sweet alto of fruit-sellers, a staccato drum of footsteps, the soft contralto of women bargaining. The boy who sold plantains had no voice of his own — it had been traded away on a hot afternoon for the price of a loaf — but when he tossed one onto the scale the market gave his voice back in the shape of laughter.
An old woman with a basket of bitter leaves walked past him every day and hummed a tune only she remembered. “Sing it loud,” the boy challenged once, and for a moment the sun leaned in. The melody turned the currency in his pocket into a map, led him to a broken radio where he learned the map of the city, and to a borrowed guitar whose strings were rust and hope.
By evening the boy traded the guitar for a small bowl of stew and a place to sleep. He had lost the plantains and yet had gained a tune that fit his footsteps. The market kept singing — an orchestra of hands and voices — and the boy joined in. Somewhere, in the middle of bargaining and the squeal of a cart, he found that a song can be currency too: it buys courage, it pays for a smile, and once, it bought him a friend.