One Plastic Bag

Njau, Gambia

Isatou walks with her chin frozen. Fat raindrops pelt her bare arms. Her face hides in the shadow of a palm-leaf basket, and her neck stings with every step. Warm scents of burning wood and bubbling peanut stew drift past. Her village is close now. She lifts her nose to catch the smell.

The basket tips.
One fruit tumbles.
Then two.
Then ten.
The basket breaks.
Isatou kicks the dirt.

Something silky dances past her eyes, softening her anger. It moves like a flag, flapping in the wind, and settles under a tamarind tree. Isatou slides the strange fabric through her fingers and discovers it can carry things inside. She gathers her fruits in the bag.

The basket is useless now. She drops it, knowing it will crumble and mix back in with the dirt.

Four goats greet Isatou as Grandmother Mbombeh emerges from her kitchen hut.
“Hurry in before the rain soaks your beautiful mbuba!”

Isatou scurries in, and Grandmother serves spicy rice and fish. Rain drums on the creaking aluminum roof.

“I … broke your basket,” Isatoll confesses.

“But I found this.”

“Plastic,” Grandmother frowns.

“There’s more in the city.”

Day after day, Isatou watches neighbors tote their things in bright blue or black plastic bags. Children slurp water and wanjo from tiny holes poked in clear bags. Market trays fill with minties wrapped in rainbows of plastic. The colors are beautiful, she thinks. She swings her bag high. The handle breaks. One paper escapes. Then two. Then ten.

Isatou shakes sand off her papers. Another plastic bag floats by, and she tucks her things inside. The torn bag is useless now. She drops it to the dirt, as everyone does. There’s nowhere else to put it.

Day after day, the bag she dropped is still there.
One plastic bag becomes two.
Then ten.
Then a hundred. 

Plastic isn’t beautiful anymore, she thinks. Her feet step down a cleaner path, and the thought floats away.