Sweet Comfort

The street is busy, the dust unavoidable, kicked up by the thousands of feet treading to and fro, going here and there, making deals, selling things, meeting people, making a living, striving to keep busy in a world gone mad. Walking down the street, I have to weave in between the tight squeeze of people, fighting for space between matatus and hawkers, darting out of the way of oncoming traffic, determined to get to my destination in one piece. Finally I arrive, the smell wafting through the dark corridor a testament that they’re still in business. Thank God, there’s still hope in this dark world! The sweet smell of freshly baked concoctions of flour and sugar, margarine and chocolate, nuts and spices, all mixed into an array of heady flavours that are carried by a dusty breeze onto the sun baked street, tempting passersby to investigate the source, to see, to taste, to fill themselves in the comfort of sweetness, or so the crowds that darken this corridor with me testify.
After the bustle of the street a few feet outside, the silence inside is eerie. At least twenty people fight for space at the counter, quietly jostling one another in a bid to get the attention of the girls on the other side, hoping to be out of the stuffy room sooner rather than later, the faster to enjoy whatever treat tickles their fancy. The silence is uncanny for a tiny shop in the city centre packed to capacity. Everyone if whispering, so when my turn comes, I whisper too, pointing at my choice in the glass counter to indicate my order, then silently stepping back, nodding to person behind me to indicate they can take their turn. Everyone avoids looking at one another in the eye, the tentative smiles usually shared by strangers are gone. I squeeze my way to the register to hand over my cash, watching the girls behind the counter, attempting to remember which one took my order, as they quickly take turns, spooning and measuring at the weighing scale, dividing up the spoils for the hungry sea of customers. Finally the girl with the high pony tail catches my eye, and with a nod of her head directs me to a relatively empty corner of the counter so she can hand over the goods. The cheery thanks I am about to give is halted by the tired, dull look in her eyes; instead I mumble a quick thanks, grabbing my slightly warm brown bag of chocolate chip cookies. I walk out back onto the sweltering plastic bag littered street, looking forward to finding a safe haven to enjoy the sweet bliss of melting chocolate and crumbling sugary flour; as I join the rest of the silent masses in a short reprieve, filling my breaking heart with temporary relief from emptiness, with sweet treats and empty notions of normalcy.