Satoh

Sato Stories: The Legend of Raria at Boroti Market.

You know, when I talk about my childhood, people assume it was just normal kid stuff — running
around, eating githeri, dodging homework like a committed activist. But there was this one man…
this legend… this fruit philanthropist of Boroti Market: Raria.
If you grew up in Kibirichia or anywhere near Buuri, you know Boroti Market — a place where
everyone is busy, loud, negotiating prices like they’re applying for a loan. And somewhere in the
middle of all that chaos was Raria with his iconic wooden wheelbarrow. Not the fancy metal ones —
this one had character. You’d hear it before you saw it, creaking proudly through the market.
Raria was from Meru too, though from Igembe or Tigania — he used to talk about it a lot, but
honestly, I was just there for the fruits, not the geography lessons.
The man’s job was simple: carry things from point A to B. But the way he did it? Bro, he moved like
he was transporting national secrets. Vegetables, sacks, fruits — especially fruits. And that was our
point of interest. Because every time his shift ended, he'd pull up on us like:
“kujeni hapa.”
And boom — bananas, sometimes mangoes, sometimes whatever was in season or “accidentally
available.” Whether the fruit came from a grateful customer or through “wheelbarrow privilege,”
that’s not my business. All I know is that a banana you didn’t buy hits different when the economy is
tight and your mum is raising three boys on her tailor hustle.
Shout out to my mum — strongest woman I know. But fruits weren’t exactly part of our daily
programme. So when Raria showed up sweaty, smiling, pushing his noisy wheelbarrow and
handing us bananas like he was Father Christmas, that thing used to make our whole day.
Then life did that thing it always does — it moved. I joined high school, vanished into boarding life,
came home less, and before I knew it, the Boroti days were behind me. One day I woke up and
realised I hadn’t seen Raria in years.
I don’t know where he is now. Maybe he’s still pushing that wooden wheelbarrow somewhere.
Maybe he retired. Maybe he’s resting with the ancestors, telling them stories about how he used to
bless broke boys with bananas.
Whatever the case… the man is a legend in my books.
Shout out to Raria of Boroti Market — a stranger who shaped someone’s childhood in small,
quiet, banana-flavoured ways..

Man sacrifices his health in order to make money. Then he sacrifices money to recuperate his health. And then he is so anxious about the future that he does not enjoy the present; the result being that he does not live in the present or the future; he lives as if he is never going to die, and then dies having never really lived.