"They charge by color."

I went out with Ade our driver one afternoon to pick up zucchini and bananas from the produce stand at the corner down the street from our flat. In the pouring rain, we pull up to stand, where the vendor is standing with an umbrella waiting to help us.

"Zucchini?" I ask.

"Not today," he answers.

"Bananas?" I ask.

"Not today," he answers.

"I know another place," says Ade, and we splash our way through the unpaved back roads of Ikoyi in search of another produce stand. 

Side note: The roads are unpaved, but I don't want you to get the impression that we are roughing it out in the sticks. We're quite spoiled, actually. Ikoyi is like the River Oaks of Lagos, second only to the very trendy and up-and-coming Banana Island. We live in a high-rise apartment building, but we are surrounded by old colonial estates and single-family compounds that would rival the homes along Kirby Drive (sorry for all the Houston references... just imagine "fancy"). Regardless, this is Lagos and only some of the roads are actually paved. And even the roads that are paved tend to wash away during rainy season.

So back to my story. 

We find the second produce stand and, through the sheets of rain, manage to summon the vendor to our window.

 "Zucchini?" I ask. 

"Not today," he answers.

"Bananas?" I ask.

"One-two," he answers. (That's short for 1,200 Naira, about $8.)

I may not know much, but I know that seems like a lot for a bunch of bananas. 

"That seems a little expensive."

"One thousand, then. Take them," he negotiates. (Negotiating is an art around here. I am learning that "take it" means something like "that's my final offer, you're killing me, but take it and go, so I can have something to feed my three wives and 14 starving children, you horrible, greedy person." Not that it really is his final offer or frankly a very good offer at all. But it's all part of the art form. Er... at least I think it is.)

"Leave it." says Ade from the front seat. So we do. And as we drive away, I ask Ade, "What would you have paid for those bananas?"

"Three hundred," he answers. 

And then he says something so true it makes me laugh...

"They charge by color."

They charge by color: One price for the white lady in the big car in the fancy neighborhood who expects car-side service, and another price for the local guy who shops on foot at the market.

That's ok. I don't mind spreading a little money around. We are very blessed, and I know it. But c'mon! Twelve hundred Naira for bananas? 

Even this white lady isn't dumb enough to buy that.