The Weekend Market Stall

Uncle Hassan lets me run his spice stall every Saturday. I arrive at six, unfold the striped awning, and stack pyramids of paprika, cumin, and dried mint.Regulars ask for family blends, and I weigh them on the brass scale. Tourists photograph the colours and taste dates for free. At noon Hassan brings lentil soup, and we eat behind the sacks of rice. By sunset the cash box is heavy and my arms smell of cinnamon. Hassan counts the money, pays me fairly, and says trade is half maths, half kindness. The stall teaches more than trade. I have learned to guess what a customer wants from the way they look at the trays, and to say no politely when someone asks for a discount on fifty grams. I keep a small notebook of prices and note what sold out first. In winter the morning is cold, so Hassan brings a gas heater and we warm our hands between customers. He tells stories about his father, who sold the same spices from a cart near the bridge. When the market closes, we fold the awning, sweep the square, and load the boxes into a borrowed van. My arms ache, but the smell of cumin stays on my jacket all week, and I like it.