Next I enter the mini-mart farther down the road, the one that last time sold large-size bags of Doritoes. I’m told they no longer sell that size, although “these Doritoes are very good, aren’t they?” and it is suggested I buy several snack-sized bags instead. I buy two, one in each flavour, tuck them in my shoulder bag, and continue my walk towards the house.
Several minutes later, I notice I’m no longer carrying one of my grocery bags. Most of that day’s purchases were in the large shoulder bag, below the Doritoes, but there’d been some groceries that hadn’t fit. Luckily, I’d been only two places since leaving the grocery store. Even though the mini-mart is closer, I decide to first walk all the way back to the bitik—I have a memory of setting the bag down to examine the attaya, I’m sure I must have forgotten it there. Hopefully it’s still there. I try to think what I’d left in that bag. Not stuff I’d imagine the typical thief being interested in: deodorant, two button cell batteries, a postcard, a bag of muesli…
I arrive at the veggie stand: no bag.
“What do you want?”
“I am looking for the bag I forgot here.”
“You did not leave a bag here.”
“…No, I did.”
“The white bag?”
“Yes.”
“You took it with you.”
One man even proceeds to give a description of how I’d walked away after not buying the attaya, and specified which hand had been holding the bag. I was in Sherlock-Holmes mode, so instead of thinking, “Oh, that must mean I left the bag at the mini-mart after all” I think, “That’s suspicious…why would he have remembered all those details? Why, in particular, does he remember that it was a white plastic bag? I didn’t even remember that. He must remember because he took the bag after I left.” I’d never dealt with thieves before, but I try my best. I explain I hadn’t been anywhere else, so the bag must be here. Maybe somebody picked it up to move it out of the way or…? “No.” But it must be here! [I was getting angry now, or frustrated, or stubborn, or worried, or if there’s a word meaning a combination of those, I was that].
A customer comes over, a middle-aged man, and asks what the matter is. I explain I left my bag here but these men are saying I did not. The customer says, “Maybe you forgot it in the taxi.” I say, “I didn’t take a taxi, I was walking. After I left the supermarket, this was the only place I stopped. Then I continued walking and noticed I didn’t have one of my bags.”
By this point, I’ve essentially accused the bitik owners of having stolen my bag, or at least lied about its whereabouts. “Thief” and “liar” probably tie for the worst things you can call someone, without getting vulgar. I also realize that the situation is hopeless, anyway, because even if they did take my bag, it’s not like they’re suddenly going to admit this and hand it over now. But still unwilling to give up and walk away, I try asking one last time if maybe they’d forgotten and they’d put it away to keep it safe or…
No. They’re angry and the customer has become the mediator. They give the customer the order of events:
- I came and put down the bag.
- I asked about eggs and looked at the attaya
- I didn’t buy attaya
- I picked up the bag and walked away.
I arrive at the mini-mart and figure I might as well hop in and see if the bag is there. Before anyone can answer my question—“Did I leave a …?”—I spot the bag, slumped next to a pile of cardboard boxes. Great…
Well, before that emotion there was relief and excitement, but that got replaced with a feeling of “Ugh…how embarrassed I’m going to feel when I go apologize…”
Okay, okay, I’ll admit, part of me is skipping along thinking, “Look at me! Doing the right thing, walking all the way back to apologize to people I don’t even like!” and part of me is delighting in the amusing story I’d have to talk about, but I think part of me is genuinely hanging my head in shame and hoping I could undo the horrible beginning I’d given to the men’s day.
As I trot back to the bitik, a line from the Pulaar language recording (that I’d downloaded and listened to before leaving America) is playing itself on repeat in my head. “Achu haake. Forgive me (for a big offence). Achu haake. Forgive me (for a big offence).”
I reach the bitik and apologize a thousand times. The men remain grumpy. They say they’d told me I’d taken the bag and why hadn’t I listened and did I think they’d stolen it? No no no, forgive me forgive me forgive me.
And I knew I didn’t deserve to be forgiven, and I didn’t really care if I wasn’t, but still I hoped maybe they could’ve been a little friendlier… As I’m standing there wondering how long I’m going to have to continue standing there (and thinking maybe it’d been a bad idea to return after all, because it didn’t seem like it was making anyone feel any better) the customer, now eating breakfast, looks up and says, “You can speak Pulaar?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you speak it before?”
“I did not think many people in Kombo spoke Pulaar.”
“But I speak Pulaar, they speak Pulaar.” “Yes, now I know.”
Then he wanted to know where I’d learned Pulaar and what my name was and he was a Bah so then we got to call each other fat. One of the men tries to interrupt again with another reminder about how I hadn’t listened when they’d been telling me the truth. I apologize some more and say I’d forgotten I’d gone into another bitik, please forgive me. The customer helps me out and reminds them I am apologizing.
Then I leave the customer to finish his breakfast, leave the bitik owners to sell imitation goat attaya, pick up all my bags and walk to the bookstore, where I inhale the scent of new books and buy an overpriced meat pie.
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