I’m unaware of the origin of our strange idea, acted upon last week to the amusement of our Ghanaian staff and fellow fellows, but it somehow planted itself in the mind of another fellow, Erica, was communicated and acquiesced to by me, and gave birth to a novel, confounding spectacle last week at the local farmer’s market: yavus selling baked goods.
Every fourth day market day occurs in Anloga. An otherwise vacant lot comes to life with the grating calls of hawkers, whose voices rise and fall like the engine of a weed whacker as an unfortunate someone attempts to start it, and who navigate through the sedentary vendors with piles of gum, biscuits, handkerchiefs, drinks, or other items piled atop their heads on platters or in baskets. The engines of trotros rumble and groan as they stream into the market’s center, unloading vendors from afar who carry baskets full of goods, while others make their way to the market with their burdens on their heads, babies wrapped snugly onto their backs with brightly-patterned cloth. The salesman with voice of a bullfrog startles passersby as he croaks his stentorian advertisement. Conversations, arguments, greetings, scrapings, footsteps overlay one atop the other, gradually building as they encounter one another and merge, filling in the gaps of silence, distinction gone, individual words hopelessly lost amidst the abundance of company, till, finally, a shapeless mass of noise suffuses all. Stands are erected, mats laid out, wagons rolled in, tables set up, and covered with all manner of goods: tropical fruits stack impressively one atop the other while towers of imported canned goods defy a reasonable prediction of their plummet; patterned fabrics lie in meticulous rows and pyramids of spices show off from within their plum-sized plastic bags; dried, fried, and smoked fish emanate a potent fustiness, the product of too many hours spent raw under the influence of the sun; and baguette, brought from the bakeries of Togo, peaks out from under its white linen covering, tempting all yavus in the area with its mildly yeasty smell and agreeably golden crust, harbingers of a satisfying chew and complex, earthy taste.
To this hive of commercial activity we brought our goods last week: a pan of dark chocolate brownies swirled with peanut butter, a vanilla and lemon-scented pound cake, and brown sugar cookies. Bridget, a Ghanaian staff member who lives with us, had approved the goods as Ghana-friendly, but her general aversion to criticism caused us to doubt her approval, and if not confident, we were at least sanguine that our product would sell. Interest alone in our unfamiliar product promised some sales. A vendor that Erica had befriended had offered us a place at her booth, and there we headed. Only a few yards into the market however, the calls of an elderly lady stopped us, “Yavu, are you selling?” Excited by the suspense of how people would react, we headed toward her, responding affirmatively and explaining our product. As we chatted, her eyebrows furrowed, revealing an obscure feeling somewhere between incredulity, amusement, and curiosity. Other people begin looking up, and cautiously trickling over. Exchanges in Ewe took place between the lady to whom we were speaking and the newcomers, and various sounds of understanding uttered from their throats, as we dispensed with the unfamiliar terms “cookie” and “brownie” in favor of the already understood “keke” i.e. “cake.”
A purchase was made. A few steps further, we were called over by another lady, and concluded another transaction. From the side, a hand bearing two coins reached over, then another. “Cake” I heard. “Cake,” from another voice. “Chris, these people want cake” Erica said pointing to even more people. Looking around, we had suddenly become engulfed by Ghanaians; an intractable crowd had descended upon us like vultures upon carrion, and warm bodies pressed upon me from all directions as sweat began to bead upon my forehead, soon coating it entirely and dripping down my noise and cheeks, attempting to relieve me of the sudden influx of body heat that immersed me. The smell of overheated bodies waxed, overcoming the scent of baked goods. Taking change from outstretched hands, I began fervently tossing cookies and cake into bags, handing them out willy-nilly, trusting that they’d make it to the right people. Requests for more continued to bombard us, and the gleam of coins shone in our eyes. Within a few minutes, our cake had disappeared along with a couple dozen cookies, though our pockets weighed heavily, a fresh sensation. A few minutes more and the rest of our cookies had vanished as well.
Left with a pan of brownies, we wended our way through the market alleys, offering samples of our treat, the rich, shining brown matching the color of customers. They were picked up curiously and tasted, a single piece shared among many, a practice which revealed the hesitance natural to people who have experienced neither the taste of brownies nor the practice of sampling. “It is sweet,” they would say, though every so often someone would purchase one. Gradually, brownies were transported from the pan to bags and from bags to the grateful hands of people making a new, exciting purchase. The pan grew emptier till finally, at the back of the market, we sold the final one to a bag seller.
Our efforts earned us about seven cede, or $4.50. Though a small sum, the experience was rich, and during the past week we have received many a request for more, such that it seems we’ll soon find ourselves at the marketplace again.