Smell Me

Tunde set up her table at six in the morning. She had just finished university, and her bank account was almost empty. Everyone had told her to find proper employment, but Tunde wanted to sell her own soap.

By nine o'clock, she had sold nothing.

“If I don't sell ten bars today, I can't pay for next week's stall,” she told herself. She knew the numbers. Each bar cost her money to make, and she had to cover that cost before she could think about any growth.

A woman stopped and picked up a soap. She smelled it and put it down.

“Too expensive,” the woman said, and walked off.

Tunde almost packed up. But then she thought about her plan. A new graduate has no money, only patience. If she gave up now, she would have to find a regular job, and she didn't want that.

So she changed her sign. Instead of the price, she wrote two words: “Smell me.”

People are curious. By noon, the table was surrounded. The smell did the selling for her, and the soap was cheap enough once they wanted it.

She didn't get rich that day. But she counted her money on the bus home, and for the first time, the small business had made more than it cost. It wasn't much. It was a beginning, and beginnings are a kind of growth too.