Beyond the polished glass: everyday scenes at Accra mall trotro station – Part 2

Early signs of the night food scene begin to appear as sellers set up. A kenkey seller with a baby strapped tightly to her back stands behind a wooden table. A large silver bowl filled with a mountain of steaming kenkey sits in a plain plastic basin. Beside the kenkey is a sieve containing fried fish such as red snapper, sardines and chunks of tilapia, along with a bowl filled with red pepper.

In front of the kenkey stand, eight people form a crooked queue. Two women near the front lean in, laughing at something on a phone. The kenkey seller works quickly, un­wrapping hot kenkey from the basin while her baby cries softly.

She sways her hips to soothe the child, never pausing as she serves. She smiles at someone in the queue and says, “Customer, today the fish is fresh-fresh. Try and take two.” Her voice rises through the traffic hum; a brief moment of warmth exchanged over food and sweat. Behind them, a man with a laptop bag taps his foot and checks his watch. The others shift in line, caught between hunger and impa­tience. The kenkey seller’s back carries not only her child but the weight of the day’s labour as she continues to serve.

Next to her on the curb, a man tends to a kebab, known locally as “kyikyinga”, turning the skew­ers with practiced hands. Smoke curls upward as chicken, beef and sausage sizzle and pop over the hot coals. Every so often, he fans the grill gently, drawing glances from passersby. Some slow down, others smile or take a quick look before moving on.

A few metres away, an immigrant family, possibly from Mali or Burki­na Faso, sits quietly on the pave­ment. The father and mother rest with plastic bowls placed in front of them as they beg in silence. Their three children, two boys around the ages of ten and thirteen and a younger girl about five, move barefoot along the sidewalk in faded, dirty clothes. They ap­proach passersby with outstretched hands, pointing to their mouths and stomachs, sometimes holding onto strangers as they plead for money.

Not far from them, a footwear seller sits low on the pavement, shoes neatly arranged on a large black polythene bag in front of him. In a black T-shirt, short rasta hair framing his face, he bends over a big bowl of palm nut soup and Banku, eating slowly, totally fo­cused on his meal despite the chaos around him.

Across the road, towards the motorway, the Trotro station echoes with the voice of the public an­nouncer: “Ashaiman, Ashaiman! Afienya, Afienya! Spintex, Spintex!” The station’s ground tells its own story: puddles of muddy water dot the station from the previous day’s down pour, littered with empty floating pure water sachets, bottle caps, corn cobs and scraps of old torn paper and filth stuck in the muddy puddle. People tiptoe care­fully around them, lifting trousers and skirts to avoid the mud and dirt.

With Eyram, the Tale Bearer