Street sellers

The other day, on my way to work, I observed a man hammering two nails into a wall. The following day, there was an orange cloth fixed to the wall, and a piece of rope had been hung between the two nails. On the rope was a hammer, some grinding discs, hanging from string, two pairs of very old looking rubber gloves, and a pair of pliers. A hardware shop was being borne.

Day by day I watch the stock growing. Now there is a sheet on the ground on which there are piles of nails and screws. To the side of the sheet are various pieces of timber. The proprietor has also given himself a chair.

The stock is all obviously used: the question is where does it come from? Has he bought it, been given it on commission, stolen it? How come it has taken so long – almost two weeks – to build up the stock? Or is his business going so well that day by day he adds to the stock from the takings of the previous day?

This makes me realise how poor-friendly the streets of Kinshasa are. It is more or less free for all: set up shop when and where you like.

The typical stall has a small table, often decorated with a table cloth, often beautifully embroidered. On this will be places the wares – maybe hardboiled eggs and bread, fruit, cigarettes or cell-phone air-time cards. In our neighbourhood, being posh, there are curio and flower sellers. Above the table is an umbrella to protect the seller from the sun. If the stall sells food and drink there will be a couple of plastic chairs or a wooden bench as well.

Traders manage to find an accommodating person who can store their goods overnight, and when we walk early in the morning we see people beginning to set up their stalls, carrying their tables and chairs from the properties on the street.

Not everything is as mundane. Every day we drive past someone who is attending to more essential needs than cell phones and fruit. A piece of white cloth the size of a small table is laid on the ground. At the back stand five bottles containing potions. In the middle are small piles of other products, small roots and suchlike, and in front is the proud statement of what is being offered. Sexual problems? TB? Liver troubles? Heart not working well? Headaches? AIDS? Come to me and I will give you what you need to make you strong, happy and healthy again. . . .

To someone from South Africa, where people have a somewhat possessive attitude to other people’s property, it is fascinating to watch the street money changers. They are everywhere. Dollars are used for large transactions but you need Congolese Francs for change, so changing money is a daily necessity for many people. The money changers stand with conspicuous wads of money offering it for sale to the world. Doesn’t anyone try and steal it?

Just see what happens to anyone suspected of being a thief, and you will see why they don’t. Mob justice is not pretty.

Not everyone trades from a fixed spot. There are many itinerant traders. A popular one is the shoe shine boy: he carries a tiny platform on which the customer will put his or her shoes, with which he makes a distinctive clacking sound as he bangs his brush against it.

Everywhere you go there are women selling the half sized baguettes which are the working man’s breakfast and lunch. The women nonchalantly carry them on their head in blue plastic bowls, with some unappetising bits of cardboard box around the edge to prevent them falling out.

Twice a week we have an evening visit from our mobile greengrocers – a woman and her adolescent daughter (see picture above). A few days ago we were blessed by the visit of an altogether superior sort: he was selling what he called imported food – imported, so he said from Brazzaville, which is a kilometre away, of course.

The food? Fish, lobsters, and, wait for it, frogs legs.