The market opens early on Saturdays. Before the sun reaches the rooftops, a woman named Imani sets out three crates of oranges on a folding table and wraps a wool scarf around her neck. She has sold fruit on this corner for eleven years. Her customers know her by name, and some stop to ask about her daughter, who is studying engineering in another city.
Imani keeps a small notebook under the table. In it she writes what sold, what spoiled and what she might try next week. Last winter she began writing down one good thing that happened each day. On a rainy morning, a boy returned a coin she had dropped. On a quiet afternoon, a neighbour brought her tea. The notebook is not a diary, she says. It is proof that the days add up to something. She laughs about that, and then opens the first crate.