Market Day

Saturday. Market day.
I'm just here to carry baskets. Allegedly.
(market day)

Six a.m., you're already bargaining,
tomato woman meeting her match.
I'm two steps behind with the baskets,
promoted to official catch.
You haggle like a champion boxer —
jab, feint, walk away, return.
The onion man dropped his price and his guard;
the whole row watched a master work.

Everybody knows us now:
"Madam Sharp and Basket Man."
They save the best yam for your eyes
and the gossip for my hands.

Market day! (market day)
Follow your lead through the crowded lane.
You pick the pepper, I carry the love —
every Saturday, sweet campaign.

Fresh one! (for madam)
Best price! (for madam)
(Basket Man dey smile)

The fish woman calls me "your husband" —
you didn't correct her. I noticed.
I floated through the spice section
on nothing but that omission.
You bought me roasted corn "for strength,"
I bought you the scarf you pretended not to see.
By the exit gate we were sharing groundnuts —
the market don marry us, basically.

Everybody knows us now:
"Madam Sharp and Basket Man."
They save the best yam for your eyes
and the gossip for my hands.

Market day! (market day)
Follow your lead through the crowded lane.
You pick the pepper, I carry the love —
every Saturday, sweet campaign.

Truth is, you can learn somebody anywhere,
but a market shows you everything:
how she treats the small trader,
how she counts, how she gives, how she sings.
I watched you slip extra notes to the old bean seller
and hide it even from me.
That's the Saturday I decided.

Eh! (fresh one)
Eh! (best price)
(the fish woman knew first)

Market day! (market day)
The fish woman said it before I could.
You pick the pepper, I carry the love —
every Saturday, understood.

Same time next week?
Same time forever.
(market day)