It was a bright morning, Paris the magnificent beast she was had a particular allure at this hour. Sedemi trundled through the narrow cobbled streets without hurry. The markets would not open for some hours yet. She had left the farm early to avoid Marchand’s incessant snoring. The man had a kind heart but was complacent and devoid of true soul. Quiet by day, obnoxious by night. Sedemi was glad to be alone. It came to be no surprise when the streets widened out into the market square and it was a mess. She guided the mare, and the cart it was pulling, to a safe spot devoid of ruin. Sedemi tied the horse up with a gentle pat and set to work clearing the space her stall usually occupied. There was no telling what had happened the night before, but inevitably every Monday Sedemi was greeted with oft times burnt hay strewn across the square. Her heart heavy as she worked to clear it.
Her thoughts wandered to and fro as she swept. Beatrice and her salon, the invitation that lay at home to attend one of the social gatherings held in her grand home, the unease that came whenever Sedemi thought about brushing shoulders with the elite. It was equally troubling that her one attempt to reconnect with her old life had been swiftly shut down. Marchand was not keen on Sedemi openly defying the French way. His brows furrowed, bottom lip trembled, quite obviously desperate to burst out with his disapproval, yet he never did. For that Sedemi owed him thanks. But it was no life tip-toeing around him.
She distracted herself with a song Marchand had taught her on their wedding night. Slowly, as she set up the produce fresh off the fields, cheeses from her own kitchen, Sedemi’s melody melded into one of her past. Fragment of a life she still longed for. Sedemi refused to succumb to her grief. She held her head high and sung a little louder. Before she could finish merchants rolled in to start prepping for the day ahead. Sedemi smiled as the roar of her melody turned into a sweet hum. Sedemi straightened out the box of root vegetables. Agyei would be proud if he could see her now. That was enough.
“Morning,” she called as others flooded into the market. Regulars easily spotted as they lingered on their favourite merchants before they’d even had time to set up. Sedemi beamed, unable to help herself from humming as she tied an apron around her waist. It wasn’t necessary but it seemed to give market-goers an assurance that her goods were authentic.