Nightly routine

I close and lock my door and walk the 17 steps out to the street. I turn left and walk the 43 steps to a small structure off the right side of the road.

Beneath the rickety roof of loosely woven palm fronds sits a woman, probably in her late twenties, frying fish in a large cast iron skillet over a charcoal fire. I do not know her name. In my head, I call her “Fish Lady” although I would never say this to her face.

“Good evening,” she says.

“Good evening.”

“How are you?”

“I’m fine. And you?”

“Fine. And the cat?”

“He’s fine.”

“How much?”

“Two hundred,” I respond, handing her the Tupperware container that now permanently smells of fried fish.

She places four pieces in the container and exchanges it for the two hundred piece in my hand.

We have this same interaction every night I am in my village. She is always in the exact same spot. I usually respond the exact same thing to her questions. (Though I sometimes trying the entire interaction in local language instead of French.) The entire journey will always take me 14 minutes to complete.

But at least someone in my village notices when I’m not there.

“See you tomorrow,” I say, turning to walk the 43 steps back up the street.