Here’s a poem called “Seven Lemons.” This poem was inspired by the lemon vendors I encountered at the Analakely market earlier today. These men roam around with baskets full of lemons, and are probably the most persistent people in the market.
Seven. The difference between eating or going hungry.
Every lemon sold is a step away from disaster, though surely a small one – seven pale yellow lemons for the equivalent of fifty cents. I think of this every time I refuse: “Non merci, ça ne m’intéresse pas.”
I am looking down at them from seven miles up like some kind of demigod, disdainful of their insistence, how they follow me even when I turn away and try in vain to lose them in the pulse of the market. My money is a gift to be showered sparingly, only for those who offer something that suits my fancy. There will be no accepting of vanilla or peppercorns or cinnamon today, I think, nor lemons.
I try to leave for the last time, but I make eye contact, and I can refuse no longer. I pull a crumpled bill from my pocket and the lemon-monger drops seven lemons in my bag. Our transaction concluded, I am relieved as he searches for someone else to harry.
His world, I think, is defined by sevens: seven lemons per purchase, hustling lemons seven days a week just to keep his body above the wave of destitution that surges below him.
His is the last stop on the latter; there is only darkness below it, and his will to stay out of that darkness has won me over for today.
A Road to Emmaeus 