FRUIT SELLERS- THE MOTHER SERPENTS

FRUIT SELLERS- THE MOTHER SERPENTS

In Accra, fruits are never in season.

Bananas? Perpetually out of season. From January to December, the chant is the same:
“Banana is not in season.”

Mangoes? “Season coming.”
Or worse, “Season just passed.”

Even when they rot by the roadside, collapsing into themselves, begging for vultures to audition, the story holds.

Prices? That’s not about fruit. That’s about you.

Your glasses thick? The price is thicker.
A lace behind those lenses? Double.
Your shoes too shiny? Triple.
Arrive in a car? The price will sprint to the moon.

Speak English and you’ll buy oranges in Euros, bananas in US dollars.

Buy in bulk and you get a “dash.”
The dash is never a blessing. It is the one fruit condemned by God Himself, the one that smells like a bat’s armpit, neatly tucked in your basket as a token of their affection.

They smile as though they are grateful. Inside, they mutter: “Let me flatter him into bankruptcy.”

These are the granddaughters of Kalabule.
Perforators of pockets.
Pickpockets with license.
Cheerful vampires with baskets of pawpaw.

“Auntie! Unco! Bro!” they call,
their voices sweet like pineapple juice,
as they prepare to devour your wallet…
with the humble price of bananas.


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