I Learned My Greatest Life Lesson in Rural Africa
And my teacher was neither well-educated, worldly, nor wealthy
I walk up two mismatched wood boards to enter a shop that’s shaped like a boxcar. Its walls are built from more mismatched boards clothed in corrugated metal. No insulation, no sheetrock; this is rural Africa, after all. Just wood and metal. The roof is constructed of the same material; in a rainstorm, the sound inside would be like a rhythmic pop of fireworks. One entire wall on the longer dimension has been cut open and flips up to form a window, bringing in the light and greeting the street.
The middle of the shop is bisected by a long counter, and behind it, shelves of goods fill every square inch. Bottles, jars, and cans form patches of color to brighten the dark interior. The shop is like a lasagna carefully assembled over many hours by an amateur chef: lovingly crafted and a bit lop-sided.
Behind the counter stands the proprietor, his back to his wares like a pharmacist protecting strong medicines. The only products accessible to the customer are the sodas in the bright red Coke cooler, assuming one of the few sockets in the store. (Another powers one florescent tube light which hangs over the proprietor’s head.) I overlook the sodas on this visit because I’m still scoffing at how they bulge with…
