Rhumba

"Rhumba to Save the Plantains"

These days, buying fruits and vegetables feels like an experiment in faith — a quiet gamble played under fluorescent light. The aisles of New York’s corner markets hum like old radios, each shelf broadcasting a different mood: bright, dull, hopeful, betrayed.

I move through them like a dancer out of step — basket in hand, rhythm in heart — searching for the right beat, the right color, the right give beneath the thumb. The mango glows but hides its bruise. The avocado smiles a little too easily. The plantains, proud and green, stand like soldiers pretending not to be tired.

It didn’t used to be this way. I remember when shopping was simple — when you could walk into a store, inhale the scent of ripeness, and know what you were getting. Back then, you trusted your senses; the fruit trusted you back. The exchange was honest.

Now it feels like Russian roulette with your groceries. Spin the wheel, hold your breath, and pray the produce isn’t already past saving. Still, I keep coming back — each visit a small act of defiance, a little rhumba of hope.

Because somewhere in the pile, I believe one plantain still carries the song of sunlight. And maybe, just maybe, if I move gently enough — if I listen closely — I can still find the rhythm that once made this city taste like home.