A trip to Makola Market in the 2nd Person

“Although the casual observer might not notice, the Mallatta Market is an institution, an instance, a spectacle, a mosaic and a soul all rolled up into one. It is an institution of buying and selling, an instance of human endeavour, a spectacle of bustling bodies and a mosaic of food, and it is a place with a soul of its own. It has a character, and it has a set of customs and unspoken laws.”

From The Clothes of Nakedness by Benjamin Kwakye.


You would have to be a comatose observer to not notice those things about Makola Market.

The people are as busy and as loud as fans going to or coming from a sold-out game, a game that is just beginning and ending. Everyone comes and goes at the same time. It is hours in the future mixed in with the present. Today tomorrow and yesterday repeating in the stalls the sidewalks and the block after city block of people and shops.

Everything is pushed up and crammed against the next everything. Wood carved crafts blend into leather shoes get mixed up with sparkling kitchen appliances that turn into goats and chickens and run about, dodging swiftly moving feet and cars.

The crowd spills out into the street ignoring the cars that push slowly through, that announce their presence with horns as if someone cares. And everywhere, there is the haggling and bickering over prices.

“Hey Abruni!”

Through the crowds and traffic people grab at you, they grab at your forearm, they grab at the girl named Hannah who is maybe sixteen and is your guide because she picked you.

She takes you by the hand and turns you into a child, leading you through the sights and smells of food cooking, past snails bigger than your father’s hand when you really were a child. The snails push themselves around, soft and vulnerable, their fate a stew pot or skewer or something ending with a dinner plate.

“Over here Abruni!”

She takes you around looking for the thing you have come for. A grass mat. A simple grass woven mat you thought would take ten minutes to buy has now taken two hours and you are so hopelessly lost you are sure you have stepped between the lines of Oliver Twist and wander about, a faceless nameless character in an African London, following Hannah to her Fagan.

But then, there you are. Another crowded street; vendors have taken it over, their stalls line the sidewalks and straddle the white line. Hannah stands in front of one and points, “Is that what you want?”

Yes! You buy two at the price she has negotiated, a price better then you had been told to pay by the caretaker of your house.

To get home you have to go back through the crowds, the people clutching out for you, patting your back, in search of something, a sale, a wallet, a money belt?

“That’s right, you better run Abruni!”

Don’t stop. Keep up with Hannah and do what she does. Don’t look back, don’t look at any of them or you’re trapped explaining that you don’t want to buy anything, that you don’t know their cousin in Toronto, and can’t help them to get there, either. Do as your mother told you and watch for cars because there’s no ‘might’ about it -- you will get run over.

Get out on the other side and feel relief that you have what you’ve come for and that you’ve still got your wallet and bus fare home.

Before you go, thank Hannah for her help and engage in some small talk, answer her questions.

“Have you been in Ghana long?”
“A few weeks.”
“Do you like it?”
“Very much.”
“Foreigners come here and say we have a rich country but don’t have the knowledge to be wealthy. Do you know what knowledge they’re talking about?”

Chew that over for a bit. Give her 20,000 C, the price you paid for one of the mats you came for. When she asks you to call if you want to come shopping again, exchange phone numbers.

Get on your trotro, mats in hand. Take a deep breath and realize you didn’t see anything that wasn’t three feet from the end of your nose.

“Although the casual observer might not notice, the Mallatta Market is an institution, an instance, a spectacle, a mosaic and a soul all rolled up into one. It is an institution of buying and selling, an instance of human endeavour, a spectacle of bustling bodies and a mosaic of food, and it is a place with a soul of its own. It has a character, and it has a set of customs and unspoken laws.”