The market is already busy by the time I arrive, but it never feels rushed. There’s a rhythm to it, one that only exists in the morning.
Vendors chat while weighing vegetables. Regulars move with purpose, stopping at the same stalls in the same order. Someone greets someone else by name, and the exchange lasts just long enough to matter.
I start noticing how the neighbourhood wakes up here. What people buy hints at who they are cooking for. Small bundles of leafy greens. One chicken instead of two. The same auntie returning every few days, not stocking up, just keeping life going.
Food is the reason everyone is here, but it’s not the point. The point is repetition. Familiarity. The quiet agreement that this is how mornings are done.
I leave with a bag of vegetables I didn’t plan to buy, but more importantly, with a clearer sense of the place. Some neighbourhoods reveal themselves slowly. This one does it before 10am.
