February 20, 2016, Bolgatanga

February 20, 2016. This afternoon at Bolgatanga Market, Ghana Saturdays, The everyday Bulga market
Bulges at the seams. 
Pools of shade, 
Cast from the market umbrellas,
Shelter the sellers,
But not the loan Canadian
Or all the African shoppers. 
Motor cycles and huge lories Attempt to navigate
Our crowded path. Pulled or pushed wagons,
Young men struggling to carry, Enormous sacks of grain, And the ever present,
Bowls balanced on heads.
Attempt to move the other way. 
In the shady patches,
Turbaned women, 
In jarring colourful outfits 
And aprons,
Sell onions, tomatoes, greens,
Charcoal, tyvek bags, Gourd bowls and tooth paste.
 The animals; Goats, cows, and pigs
Wander everywhere. The stench of dried telapia,
A small black flattened fish, Turns my obruni stomach. Some women spend the day, 
Bent at the waist,
Sifting grain, rice, corn and millet. 
Men operate a mechanized mill 
That churns and grinds. 
Babies cry. They are slid from backs To fronts and nursed. Hawkers cajole me To purchase yams.
Often I am flashed A glorious white smile, That lights up the dark face.
 The occasional old women Dances in front of me,
Blocking my way and demanding money.
 Experiencing the market, Is a huge blessing or
An enormous challenge. February 20, 2016, Bolgatanga Market, Ghana Saturdays, The everyday Bulga market Bulges at the seams. Pools of shade, Cast from the market umbrellas, Shelter the sellers, But not the loan Canadian Or all the African Shoppers. Motor cycles and huge lories Attempt to navigate Our crowded path. Pulled and pushed wagons, Young men struggling to carry Enormous sacks of grain, And the ever present Bowls balanced on heads Attempt to move the other way. In the sghady patches, Turaned women, In jarring colourful outfits And aprons, Sell onions tomatoes,greens, Charcoal, tyvek bags, Gourd bowls and tooth paste. The animals: Goats, cos and pigs, Wander everywhere. The stench of dried telapia, (A small black flattened fish), Turns my obruni stomach. Some women spend the day Bent at the waist, Sifting grain, rice, corn and millet. Men operate a mechanized mill That churns and grinds. Babies cry. They are slid from backs To fronts and nursed. Hawkers cajole me To purchse yams. Often I am flashed A glorious white smile, That lights up the dark face. The occasional old women Dances in front of me, Blocking my way And demanding money. Experiencing the market, Is a huge blessing or An enormous challenge