By mid-morning, the first customers had started trickling in. Their coins, small and deliberate, felt heavier than usual in Ruthie's palms—not because of their weight, but because each represented survival.
When school ended, Mariama and Isatou arrived, backpacks slung over their shoulders, their faces flushed from running along the dusty paths.
Ruthie greeted them warmly. "Thank you for coming," she said, guiding them to help with the stall. "Mariama, you can hand out the small sachets. Isatou, you can manage the bottles and oil."
They worked quickly, learning the rhythm of customer interaction. Mariama called out cheerfully, "Fresh groundnuts! Come and buy!" Isatou held bottles carefully, handing them to buyers with polite smiles. Their small contributions multiplied the efficiency of the stall, allowing Ruthie to step back occasionally, breathe, and plan.
Together, they worked as a team. Every coin was counted, every transaction carefully noted. It was a small family enterprise, a joint effort born of necessity and nurtured by care. The Jatta sisters, though young, were learning lessons in business, responsibility, and the fragile art of survival.
Just as the morning's routine seemed stable, a sudden disturbance broke the rhythm. A passing cart, pushed by a merchant in a hurry, jolted too close to Ruthie's table. The edge of the cart struck the wooden stand, tipping over the tray. Sachets of groundnuts spilled across the dusty road, bottles of oil teetered dangerously, and one small packet fell into a puddle left from last night's rain.
Ruthie's heart stopped. She rushed forward, trying to salvage what she could. Her sisters joined immediately, picking up the spilled goods, wiping bottles with the corners of their cloths, trying to salvage the ruined packets.
Some customers stopped, curious, or sympathetic, while others walked past, uninterested. The small pile of coins Ruthie had just earned seemed to vanish in an instant, the effort of the morning almost undone.
Ruthie's chest ached, not just from physical labor but from the emotional weight. Years of struggle had taught her to endure, but this setback stung sharply. She closed her eyes for a moment, took a deep breath, and reminded herself: This is not the end. It is only a challenge. We can recover.
With Mariama and Isatou helping, Ruthie quickly reorganized the stall. They counted what could still be sold, set aside the ruined items, and displayed the remaining goods neatly. The sun blazed down, warm on their backs, but they worked tirelessly, their small hands moving efficiently.
Ruthie learned something crucial in that moment: even when plans falter, even when the world seems chaotic, persistence and teamwork could restore order. Her sisters' willingness to help, their laughter despite the mishap, reminded Ruthie that she was not alone. Together, they salvaged the day.
By mid-afternoon, customers had returned. Coins began to fill Ruthie's small tin once again. Though the setback had cost some goods, it did not destroy her spirit. She had learned, in a small but important way, that obstacles were inevitable—but resilience and determination could overcome them.
That evening, when they returned home, Ruthie placed the salvaged coins on the worn table, carefully counting them. Though smaller than usual, they were enough for Awa's medicine and a modest meal for the family.
Ruthie looked at her sisters and smiled faintly, exhaustion shadowing her features. "We did well today," she said. "Even when things went wrong, we fixed it. Tomorrow will be better."
Her mind, ever forward-thinking, already planned improvements: a sturdier tray, a more stable table, and perhaps a small mat beneath to prevent spills in case of another accident. She was learning the art of survival, the delicate balance of labor, business, and family care.
Her sisters, tired but proud, nodded. Mariama whispered, "We can do this every day, Ruthie. We can help."
Ruthie's chest swelled with pride. The setback had not broken them—it had reinforced their unity, their resilience, and their capacity to endure. The next morning, the sun rose pale over Sukuta, spilling soft light across the sandy roads and the small compounds that lined them. Ruthie rose early, her body still sore from the previous day's labors, her hands stiff and cracked from both her minor jobs and the first experience at the roadside stall. Yet her resolve was unwavering. Every morning she reminded herself: the day's work was never just labor—it was survival, it was love, it was preparation for a future that could finally allow her family a chance at stability.
After yesterday's setback, Ruthie spent part of her morning inspecting her small roadside stall. She placed the table sturdily on a flat section of the dusty road, smoothing a cloth over it to prevent items from toppling. A shallow tray held neatly arranged goods—groundnuts, spices, small sachets of sugar, and vegetables.
She realized that presentation mattered. Even in her modest market, a neat display attracted customers. She rearranged her items, creating a simple but orderly pattern: taller bottles at the back, smaller packages in front. Every small adjustment was a lesson in professionalism, a mark of her growing understanding of trade.
While the stall began to attract buyers, Ruthie continued her minor jobs. She delivered water, swept compounds, and washed clothes in between customer visits. Each job was like a gear in a complex machine, her day a careful orchestration of labor, time, and stamina.
She began using coins from minor jobs to supplement the stall's inventory. If she earned five dalasis sweeping a neighbor's compound, she could buy a small bundle of groundnuts to sell in the afternoon. Every coin became a link in a chain of survival, every small action a thread in the fabric of her family's life.
Mariama and Isatou had now become integral to the stall's operation. Mariama called out to passing customers with practiced charm: "Fresh groundnuts! Spices for your cooking!" Isatou counted coins and handed goods to buyers carefully. Their small contributions allowed Ruthie to step away briefly to fetch water, manage her minor jobs, or run quick errands.
Their presence transformed the small roadside venture into a family enterprise. Each coin earned was a shared responsibility, each bag sold a collective victory. Ruthie saw the pride in her sisters' eyes and felt the quiet satisfaction that comes from building something together.
Setbacks continued, though less dramatically than the first. A sudden rain shower drenched some of the goods, forcing Ruthie and her sisters to cover the stall with plastic sheets. Curious children occasionally knocked over items, and a few irritable vendors complained about the space she occupied.
Yet each challenge became a lesson. Ruthie learned to secure goods better, to anticipate weather, and to diplomatically respond to complaints. Each minor failure was absorbed and turned into experience, strengthening her resolve.
During quiet moments between customers, Ruthie contemplated the future. She thought about expanding her small business gradually: more trays, different goods, perhaps a second location along the market road.
Her mind also lingered on her family. If she could save enough, she could buy better ingredients to sell, improve her mother's medicine, and eventually invest in a small storage space so she would not be dependent on temporary setups. Every decision, every coin, every purchase was weighed against survival and the potential for growth.
Despite the constant labor and obstacles, Ruthie felt small sparks of satisfaction and hope. The first few coins of profit, the smiles of returning customers, the laughter of her sisters working alongside her—these moments offered relief from the relentless burden of responsibility.
Evenings were for reflection. Ruthie sat with Awa, checking on her medicine, sharing the small victories of the day. She counted coins with Mariama and Isatou, planning carefully how to allocate money for food, medicine, and savings. The routine was grueling, but it was purposeful.
Ruthie had transitioned from mere survival to strategic endurance, finding pride and hope in the small victories. The stall was no longer just a place to sell goods—it was a symbol of resilience, a promise to herself and her family that they could endure, adapt, and eventually thrive.
The late afternoon sun hung low over Sukuta, painting the dusty roads in hues of gold and amber. Ruthie wiped sweat from her brow as she stepped back from her small roadside stall, surveying the modest display of goods she had arranged so carefully that morning.
The coins in her small tin jingled faintly—a comforting sound, each one a testament to her labor, determination, and persistence. Yet, as she counted them quietly, her mind wandered beyond the numbers, beyond the immediate survival of food and medicine. What if this could grow? she thought. What if this small venture could become more than just survival?
Ruthie had become an expert in measuring risks and opportunities. Every day, she observed what sold fastest: the small sachets of groundnuts were always gone by mid-morning, while some vegetables lingered longer than she expected. She noted customer behavior carefully, remembering who bought frequently and what people needed most.
Her sisters' voices calling out to customers, her mother's quiet reminders about medicine, the occasional neighbor asking for more supplies—all of it created a vivid map of potential opportunities. Ruthie studied it closely, imagining ways to expand her reach, to increase her earnings without sacrificing her time or energy.
Ruthie's thoughts were practical yet ambitious. She envisioned a second tray or table, selling additional goods to meet customer demand. Perhaps she could add small baked goods or snacks that people would buy on the way home from school or work. Maybe, she thought, she could save enough to rent a slightly larger space during market days, one that would allow her to stock more items and attract a steady stream of buyers.
She considered the risks carefully. She could not afford losses. Every coin mattered for her mother's medicine and her sisters' schooling. But the potential rewards were clear: more goods, more customers, more income, more stability for her family.
I can do this, Ruthie whispered to herself, feeling the familiar surge of determination. I have to do this.
Ruthie decided on a step-by-step approach. First, she would continue her minor jobs, ensuring a steady flow of small coins. Second, she would reinvest part of her stall's earnings into slightly more goods each day, testing what sold fastest. Third, she would observe, learn, and adapt.
Each evening, after the market closed and her sisters helped her clean and pack up, Ruthie would sit quietly, pen in hand, sketching out possibilities. A small ledger was born: lists of expenses, lists of goods sold, small calculations of potential profit. Though simple, it represented something powerful: control over her destiny, however modest.
Ruthie's mind often wandered to the future beyond mere survival. She imagined her mother, Awa, sitting more comfortably, her medicine always available, her meals consistent and nutritious. She imagined Mariama and Isatou thriving at school, learning without worrying about whether they would return home to an empty cupboard.
She imagined a life where she could pause, breathe, and rest without guilt. Even as a young woman burdened with responsibility, Ruthie allowed herself small dreams. She did not yet speak them aloud—they were fragile, easily crushed—but in her heart, they burned quietly.
This is why I work so hard, she reminded herself. Not just for survival. For hope. For possibility.
In that quiet moment at the roadside, with the market slowly emptying and the sun dipping lower, Ruthie understood the importance of foresight. Survival was not enough. Stability was not enough. The world demanded adaptation, strategy, and courage.
She looked at her small table, her tray, and her few remaining goods, feeling a surge of pride. These humble objects were not just tools—they were symbols of her vision. Every coin earned, every item sold, every lesson learned, was a step toward something greater.
Ruthie smiled faintly, determination shining in her eyes. Tomorrow, she would return. She would sell more. She would save more. She would grow. And slowly, one careful step at a time, she would build a life that could sustain her family, protect her mother, and honor the memory of her father.