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It’s a routine holiday stopover for us, parking outside a rural supermarket selling sweets, braai meat
and artisanal bits and pieces. My daughters love the place. For them, it’s called ‘The Sweet Shop’ and they
couldn't care less about the efforts of the local farmers to provide vegetables, honey and fresh milk. For
them, shopping there involves collecting bags of 11 different kinds of sugary treats before editing that pile
down to a shortlist. It’s a tradition that adds an unnecessary quarter-hour to a long-distance drive.Daughter The Younger has a loose association with
currency, understanding that we’ll underwrite her
in most retail situations. Walking from the car to the
supermarket, we pass a craftsman selling a range of wire,
wood and tin items. Initially, he doesn’t pay us particular
attention, probably assuming that we’re part of the smile-
and-nod brigade who appreciate his presence there but
never really interact with him.
Cue Daughter The Younger. Loudly.
“Please, do you have anything for R10?”
Knowing that she’s just chosen an arbitrary amount
of money to spend and that the man’s time and skills
are worth more than she is offering, I gently inform her
that that’s unlikely, beginning to add basic facts about
how long things take to make, and that he has to buy
materials, before I am interrupted.
The man has a wonderful deep baritone, warm and
friendly.
“I don’t, but you can take a keychain for
R10, if you want.”
The striking, beaded keyrings he
points at usually go for twice that
price, it transpires, but he is unfazed
by the loss of potential income.
I mumble something about his
kindness not being necessary, but
his reply reminds me that that’s
exactly the point of
kindness.“I mumble something
about his kindness not
being necessary, but
his reply reminds me
that that’s exactly the
point of kindness.”“She has asked so nicely. She can have the keychain
for R10.”
Daughter The Younger kneels, choosing a beautiful
keyring in the shape of the initial of her first name –
something she points out to the craftsman, who grins as
she fiddles with her pink purse, bringing out a R10 note.
He takes her cash and stuffs it in a pocket, still smiling. He
may not know that my daughter has hearing and other
difficulties that make it a challenge for some people to
understand her and vice versa. His easy interaction with
her has made it seem like nothing is amiss, buttressing
her own strongly held opinion that this is the case, and
reinforcing her positive self-image. The gentleness he
showed her may be his default setting, or he may have
adjusted because she was a child, or because she was
cheerful. Regardless, he has made a difference in her day,
and in mine.
Inside the store, Daughter The Younger settles on a
bag of wine gums. We head back to the car. I thank the
craftsman again as we leave, and we’re a few steps past
where he is sitting when Daughter The Younger turns and
runs back to him.
“Do you want a sweet?”
He grins, widely this time.
“Yes, please.”
Rustle, rustle, rustle. He is presented with three gums of
different colours.
“Thank you.”
“High five!”
He gives her a high five.
He laughs again, keeping his hand raised but waving
this time.
“Bye bye sister. Thank you for the sweets.”
It’s a routine stop for us, a chance to stretch our legs.
But now it is also a place where strangers unexpectedly
connect and gift each other value they may not have felt
earlier in the day. A sweet shop, indeed.Text | Bruce Dennill Photography | Sofi photoReminders that relationships are worth more than
commercial interactions are priceless
Va lue for money
talespin