How long could I stay??
1110 Words
PHOEBE
The roadside was already awake when I arrived.
The sky had turned a pale blue, the kind that promised heat even before the sun fully rose. Dust floated lightly in the air as early buses rumbled past, their engines coughing out thick smoke. I walked to my usual spot beneath the crooked neem tree the place I had claimed long before the other vendors started coming. The ground there was uneven, but later in the day it offered a little shade.
I lowered the tray from my head and knelt down.
One by one, I arranged the oranges carefully, wiping off the dust with the edge of my scarf. I lined them in neat rows, placing the brightest ones in front. Appearance mattered. I had learned that quickly. People judged before they ever asked the price.
When I finished, I sat on a small stone beside my tray and folded my hands in my lap.
“Sweet orange!” I called softly.
My voice blended into the noise of the road horns blaring, footsteps passing, traders shouting over one another. A woman stopped first. She looked at the oranges with suspicion written all over her face.
“How much?” she asked.
I told her.
She sucked her teeth loudly. “Are you mad? Do you think we pluck money from trees?”
I lowered my eyes. “They are fresh, ma.”
She shook her head and walked away, muttering insults under her breath. I watched her go, keeping my face calm even as something tightened painfully inside my chest.
Another man stopped. He picked up an orange, squeezed it roughly, then dropped it back into the tray.
“Why are they so small?” he asked.
“They are sweet inside,” I replied.
“How much?”
When I told him, he laughed loudly. “With this price? You think you’re selling gold?”
People nearby turned to look. Someone laughed. Someone else shook their head. Heat rose to my face, but I said nothing. The man walked away without buying anything.
Time passed slowly.
Some people bought. Most complained. A young boy pointed at me and asked his mother why my clothes were torn. The woman quickly pulled him away, as if I were something shameful.
By mid-morning, the sun was high above us. Sweat trickled down my back. My throat felt dry, but I didn’t have money to buy water yet. I shifted my weight and continued calling out.
“Sweet orange.”
A group of traders nearby laughed loudly, sharing jokes and snacks. I sat alone.
As the day stretched on, my thoughts drifted to places I tried not to visit.
I remembered my final year in secondary school. I remembered being one of the best students in my class. Teachers had praised my writing, my calm focus. I used to dream about university halls, about libraries, about a life that did not smell of dust and heat.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to focus on the road again.
A car pulled up suddenly by the roadside.
I looked up.
The door opened, and laughter spilled out before the people inside stepped down. Three girls and two boys came out, dressed neatly. Their shoes were clean, their bags slung carelessly over their shoulders. They looked like they had just come from somewhere important.
My heart sank even before I recognized her face.
“Phoebe?”
The voice was familiar.
I froze.
The girl stepped closer, pushing her sunglasses up onto her head. Her smile was wide and disbelieving. “It is you! I almost didn’t recognize you.”
My fingers tightened around the edge of my skirt.
“Rita,” I said softly.
We had been friends in high school or at least we had shared a desk, shared notes, whispered during lessons, laughed about teachers. Rita had always talked about university as if it already belonged to her.
And now it did.
She looked down at my oranges, then slowly back at me. Her eyes moved over the tray, the dust on my clothes, the scarf wrapped around my head.
“Oh,” she said, dragging the word out. “So this is what you’re doing now?”
The others gathered around her, curiosity bright in their faces.
“She’s selling oranges,” one of the boys said, amusement clear in his voice.
Rita laughed. “Phoebe, is this your shop?”
For a moment, it felt as if the ground beneath me had tilted. People passing by slowed down, sensing something entertaining.
“I help my family,” I said quietly.
Rita clicked her tongue. “Help? You used to say you wanted to study law.”
One of the girls covered her mouth, pretending to whisper. “Maybe this is her practical training.”
Laughter exploded around me.
I stared at the ground.
“So how much is one?” Rita asked, picking up an orange between two fingers as if it might stain her skin.
I told her the price.
Her eyes widened dramatically. “Ah-ah! With this condition? Please. In school you were always serious, but I didn’t know you’d become this desperate.”
The group laughed again.
A passerby stopped, drawn by the noise. I felt dozens of eyes on me now. My ears burned.
“Don’t you feel ashamed?” one of the boys asked casually. “We’re on our way back to campus. You should come and see how it looks.”
Rita leaned closer, lowering her voice just enough to sound kind. “You know, if you had tried harder, maybe you’d be with us now.”
Something sharp twisted inside my chest.
“I tried,” I said, so softly I wasn’t even sure they heard me.
Rita straightened and shrugged. “Life isn’t fair to everyone, I guess.”
She dropped the orange back into the tray roughly.
“Well, good luck,” she added brightly. “Try not to overprice next time.”
They turned and walked away, their laughter fading into the endless noise of the road.
I didn’t move.
The oranges sat untouched before me. Dust slowly settled on their bright skins. My throat closed tightly, but I refused to cry. Crying here would only invite more stares, more whispers.
I reached out and rearranged the oranges again, straightening the rows Rita had disturbed.
“Sweet orange,” I called out once more.
My voice was steady.
But inside me, something fragile cracked quietly and completely.
The road stretched endlessly ahead, and for the first time, I wondered how long I could stand there before I disappeared entirely.
- Writer
