A random tale by Kweku Abeeku
He wakes up early in the morning and arrives at the market square before the market women set up their goods on ancient wooden tables—tables that have witnessed more conversations than any ear has heard. If they could talk, even the mayor would flee the town.
He takes his position at his usual spot. The Dagombas call him Barimamga. He knows precisely where the wealthy pass through and positions himself strategically to catch their eye, so they might shower him with compassionate offerings from their overflowing wallets.
What these generous souls do not know is that he has built a fortune from their kindness. Some who drop their last coins into his calabash out of genuine pity are unknowingly his tenants. He owns two Yellow-Yellow and three motorkings.
The market women seek him out when they need change for their customers. He moves seamlessly between two identities: the beggar with an outstretched calabash by day and the businessman counting profits when no one is watching.
He is no longer alone; he has spawned many others like himself, whom we call Barimamsil. This is a network built on compassion but sustained by calculated deception.
In Tamale Market, the line between survival and exploitation has grown as thin as the coins that clink into his calabash. The question remains: who bears responsibility when generosity becomes an industry, and poverty becomes a performance?