Imani Leburu

What happened to me yesterday at the market still has me shaking my head. I've been selling melons there for years, as my family has done for generations. Agriculture is our lifeblood, and in Botswana's dry climate, growing melons is no small feat. I'm proud of that—proud of the way we've nurtured these sweet fruits from seed to stand.

Yesterday, as I set up my stall under the harsh sun in Gaborone, I noticed a man approaching. He wanted to buy a few melons and, as many customers do, began tapping and knocking on them to check their ripeness. Usually, this doesn't bother me, but the ground where my stand is set up has a bit of a slope. As he tapped one particularly round melon, it slipped out of his hands, rolled, and knocked into another. Suddenly, my whole stock was on the move.

Before I could react, the melons had picked up speed and crashed into the next vendor's stand—a woman who sells handmade baskets. Her display came down like a stack of cards. There was shouting, some gasps from the crowd, and in that chaotic moment, all I could think was, "My melons!" Would they be bruised, ruined for selling?

Thankfully, no one was hurt, and after the dust settled, the man who’d accidentally started the whole mess agreed to buy all the bruised ones. I could see the humor in it as I packed up for the evening. Maybe in a few days, when I’m back here under the sun, I’ll laugh a little more easily about it. After all, at 40, life has taught me that some days roll out of control just like a runaway melon.