Stall 49*
1611 Words
Just rest.
I woke up to sunlight hitting my face. Not the harsh, angry sun of noon. The soft, forgiving light of 8 AM. For the first time in years, I didn’t wake up with my chest tight and my throat dry from holding back tears.
Mum was already in the kitchen. I could hear the sizzle of akara in oil and her humming under her breath. It was the same tune she hummed when I was small and sick with malaria. I hadn’t heard her hum in three years.
I lay there for a minute, letting the sound sink in.
The chalk on my door hadn’t faded. _Stall 49 is open._
Today was the day.
I got up, washed my face, and ate breakfast with Mum. We talked about normal things. About the rain that had been holding off, about how Mama Tolu said I could take Thursday off, about how the NEPA bill had come again and it was too high.
She didn’t mention Femi. I didn’t either. But he was there, in the way she pushed an extra akara onto my plate, the way I smiled without forcing it.
When I left for work, I told her, “I might be late tonight.”
She looked up from the sink and nodded. “Be safe, Kemi.”
I nodded back.
Mama Tolu’s stall was quiet today. The rain had kept people inside, and the ones who came out were in a hurry. I wiped tables, took orders, and kept checking my phone. Nothing. No messages. No strange numbers.
At 11 PM, I closed up.
The street was empty. The streetlights flickered like they always did on this road. I took the long way home, past the old railway line.
The stone in my pocket was warm.
At exactly 2:09 AM, the world shifted.
I was back in the Market.
But this time, it felt different. Quieter. The stalls were spaced farther apart. The lanterns burned a soft blue instead of purple.
And ahead of me was Stall 49.
It looked like a small wooden house. Painted white, with a blue door. Like the house Mum and Dad had before the flood took it.
The Keeper was waiting outside.
“You came,” he said.
“I said I would,” I replied.
He nodded. “The boy is inside. He’s ready.”
I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.
Inside was a single room. A bed, a table, a window that showed nothing but darkness. And on the bed sat the boy from last night.
He looked up when I entered. His eyes were red, but he wasn’t crying anymore.
“Kemi,” he said.
I sat on the edge of the bed. “What’s your name?”
“Tayo,” he said. “Tayo Adeleke.”
I nodded. “I’m Kemi.”
He gave a small, shaky smile. “I know.”
We sat in silence for a while. The Market outside was quiet, like it was giving us this moment.
“How did you die?” I asked finally.
Tayo looked down at his hands. “Flood,” he said. “Last year. In Ajegunle. The water came at night. My mum tried to carry me, but I was too heavy. She let go so she could save my little sister.”
I felt a lump in my throat. “I’m sorry.”
He shrugged. “It’s okay. I was scared. But then I saw Femi.”
My heart stopped. “Femi?”
Tayo nodded. “He was in the water with me. He held my hand. He said, ‘Don’t be scared. I’ll stay with you until someone comes.’ He stayed until the water took us both.”
Tears stung my eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me that last night?”
Tayo looked up. “Because I wasn’t ready. And I didn’t want to scare you.”
I reached out and took his hand. It was cold, but solid. Real.
“You didn’t scare me,” I said. “You helped me.”
Tayo smiled, and for the first time, it reached his eyes. “Femi said you’d understand.”
I swallowed hard. “What else did he say?”
Tayo thought for a moment. “He said you were strong. Stronger than he was. He said you’d find a way to live, even if it hurt. And he said… he said to tell you he’s proud of you.”
I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The tears came, but they were different this time. Not the hot, angry tears of guilt. These were quiet. Grateful.
“Thank you, Tayo,” I whispered.
He squeezed my hand. “Thank you for listening.”
The room started to fade. The walls went translucent, the bed turning to mist.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“Stall 49 is closing,” the Keeper’s voice said from the doorway. I hadn’t seen him come in.
Tayo stood up. He looked taller now. Older. Peaceful.
“I have to go,” he said. “But I won’t be alone. Femi’s waiting.”
I stood up too. “Will I see you again?”
Tayo smiled. “If you need to. The Market remembers.”
He stepped forward and hugged me. It felt like hugging Femi and a stranger at the same time. Warm and strange and right.
“Take care of Mum, Kemi,” he said.
“I will,” I promised.
Then he was gone.
The room was empty.
The Keeper stepped inside. “You did well,” he said.
I wiped my eyes and nodded. “What now?”
“Now, Stall 50 opens,” he said. “But not tonight. Tonight, you rest.”
I nodded. I was tired again. But it was the same good tired as before. The kind that comes after you’ve carried something heavy and finally set it down.
The Market faded.
I was back in my room.
It was 3:15 AM.
The stone was on my bedside table. The chalk on my door now read: _Stall 50 is open._
I didn’t feel afraid.
I went to bed and slept.
No dreams.
Just rest.
---
The next few days passed in a blur of normalcy.
I worked. I ate with Mum. I slept.
But I could feel the Market waiting. Like a low hum under my skin.
On the fourth night, I couldn’t ignore it anymore.
I woke up at 2:09 AM and found myself standing in front of Stall 50.
This one looked like a library. Tall shelves, old books, the smell of dust and ink.
The Keeper was there.
“Ready?” he asked.
I nodded.
Inside, the shelves stretched up into darkness. The only light came from a single lamp on a wooden table in the center of the room.
On the table was a book.
It was old, leather-bound, with no title on the cover.
“What is this?” I asked.
“The Record,” the Keeper said. “The Market keeps track of everyone who enters. Everyone who leaves. Everyone who stays.”
I opened the book.
My name was on the first page.
Kemi Adeola. Age 24. Entered: May 13, 2026. Reason: Loss.
I turned the page.
There was Femi’s name.
Femi Adeola. Age 12. Entered: August 7, 2023. Reason: Sacrifice.
I traced the letters with my finger. “Sacrifice?”
The Keeper nodded. “He saved Tayo. And three others that night. The Market recorded it.”
I turned more pages.
Names I didn’t know. Dates I didn’t recognize. Stories I couldn’t read.
“Why are you showing me this?” I asked.
“Because you asked,” the Keeper said. “Stall 50 holds the truth of the Market itself.”
I closed the book. “And what’s the truth?”
The Keeper looked at me. For the first time, his blank face had something like sadness in it.
“The Market doesn’t take people,” he said. “People come here because they have nowhere else to go. The Market gives them a place to be heard. To be remembered.”
I thought about Tayo. About the boy in Stall 13. About all the lost things and lost people.
“So what happens to them?” I asked.
“They move on,” the Keeper said. “When they’re ready.”
I nodded. I understood now.
The Market wasn’t a trap. It was a bridge.
“Thank you,” I said.
The Keeper smiled. “Stall 50 is closed.”
The library faded.
I was back in my room.
The stone was gone.
The chalk on my door read: _The Market remembers you, Kemi._
I went to bed and slept.
No dreams.
Just rest.
---
A week passed.
No more stalls opened.
No more messages.
The Market was quiet.
Mum noticed I was different.
“You seem lighter,” she said one evening as we ate dinner.
I smiled. “I feel lighter.”
She reached across the table and took my hand. “Good,” she said. “You deserve that.”
I squeezed her hand back.
That night, I stood at my window and looked out at the city.
The rain had started again. Soft and steady.
I didn’t run from it.
I opened the window and let it fall on my face.
It felt like washing.
Like starting over.
The Market would call again someday. I knew that.
But I wasn’t afraid anymore.
Because now, I knew I wasn’t alone.
And I knew I was ready.
---
*Word count: ∼2000 words*
*Total now: ∼3763 words*
- Writer
