Gabriella Nkinzi
The boda boda driver weaved expertly through the chaotic traffic, the scent of exhaust fumes mingling with the sweetness of ripening jackfruit from roadside stalls. My friend, Sarah, gripped the handles tightly, her laughter a sharp contrast to the incessant horn honking. Arriving at Owino market, the sheer scale of it was breathtaking. The air hung thick and heavy, like a human blanket with a strong scent of ripe mangoes, pineapples, plantains being fried, and the earthly aroma of freshly turned soil. Owino market in Kampala city was not just a marketplace to me. It was a living, breathing organism, a chaotic symphony of sights, sounds, and smells. Brightly colored fabric spilled from overflowing stalls, their kaleidoscopic patterns against the dusty ground, women with baskets balanced precariously, and their voices a rhythmic counterpoint to the haggling and laughter that filled the air.
I approached the store, overflowing with handmade, wooden baskets, their intricate designs mesmerizing. Behind the stall stood a woman, her face etched with the wisdom of years spent under the Ugandan sun. Her eyes, the color of warm honey, wrinkled at the corners as she smiled, revealing a gap-toothed grin that somehow amplified her inherent kindness. Her fingers, gnarled but nimble, moved with practiced ease as she adjusted a particularly vibrant basket, its intricate patterns showcasing the vibrant hues of local dyes. A faded headscarf, tied loosely around her head, barely contained her thick, dark braids. She wore a simple but clean gomesi, the fabric softened with age and countless washes.
“How much for this one?” I asked, pointing to a basket with a particularly striking geometric design.
“Twenty thousand shillings,” she replied, her voice surprisingly strong despite the soft lilt of her words, a melodic counterpoint to the market’s din.
She told me her name was Abeni, and as we haggled playfully, she shared snippets of her life: the challenges of sourcing reeds for her baskets, the pride she felt in teaching her craft to her daughter, and the joy she found in the vibrant community of Owino market, despite hardships. The worry lines around her eyes deepened as she spoke of the rising costs of materials, yet her smile never faltered entirely, a testament to her enduring spirit.
Later, as we continued through the market, Sarah spotted a stall selling brightly colored gomesi, her eyes lighting up. She had been wanting to buy her mom a gomesi to show appreciation. She spent a good while haggling with a jovial young man whose rapid fire Luganda was entirely lost on me, but also whose infectious energy was undeniable. We left with a vibrant gomesi and another memory of Owino market’s vibrant energy.
The sun beat down on my shoulders as I walked away from Owino market, but the warmth I felt was deeper than the physical heat. It was the warmth of human connection, of shared smiles and brief exchanges: Abeni’s gentle smile, the jovial laughter of the gomesi seller, and the energy of the bustling crowd. These were the indelible memories that would linger long after the market settled. Owino market is where commerce intertwines with community, where individual stories of vendors and patrons collectively paint a portrait of resilience, resourcefulness, and enduring human spirit.
