Shoes

Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso

June, 2009

After croissants and coffee by the Yibi’s pool,I walked Kwame Nkrumah—aroundthe culverts, holes, cars parkedlike dodgems in a power-out. I saw a boyon a shallow step of Banque Commerciale—baggy pants, belt-tongue wrappedto his back, t-shirt tight—he wastall and tassel-thin. At his feet, his inventoryof shoes—he was sorting themfor his day. Had I stayed to watch, I would’veseen him gathering dressups with boxy toes,flip-flop thongs, plastic pumps, high-top sneaks,and attach a pair, or two, or threeto each strong finger, each strong thumb, hishands a bony showcase in a shopfrontof air. Like a circus act—something we could haveshared, had I stayed, had I known the words.I can juggle too! I would’ve said, andbalance things! It was finesse, it was skill,and I loved it. But it was not an act, nota game, and I don’t think it was fun, for him.And I didn’t stay to watch—his needto hold the shoes for best effect,his need to sell. His need to eat. I could’vewatched him looping straps, wrapping laces,sorting soles and tongues, watched himuntil he did his rounds—the bus stand,the roundabout, the marketplace of dusty streets.I wanted to. But in the shush of traffic and horns,as he arranged the shoes, I felt the voyeur. And Ifelt dirty for it, felt the worst for who I was.