The power imbalance was glaring.
Above all this, behind the scenes, local business authorities and a few wealthy landowners held the real power.
They had quietly pressured the market to push out unlicensed vendors like me.
Occasional inspections, demands for permits I couldn’t afford, or veiled threats using their influence.
Their silence on my stall’s legality was a constant threat, even if it was never voiced directly.
That man in the suit was part of that world—the very people with resources and authority—who could decide my fate with a word.
The pressure hadn’t eased over the years—it had only evolved.
Three years ago, the first official warning letter arrived.
Then came a fine that nearly sank me.
Last year, a heated confrontation during an inspection almost ended in a forced closure.
Just a few months ago, rumors circulated that the market would be redeveloped, displacing many stalls like mine.
Yet every small victory—like continuing to operate—felt overshadowed by the looming uncertainty.
Now, with those Rolls-Royces parked outside, everything felt like it was about to unravel further.
I was bracing for what would come next—a formal meeting scheduled by the city council that I had been dodging for weeks.
Where I had to explain myself before those who held all the cards.
I wasn’t ready, not really.
And the question hung heavy in the air: had I just witnessed a beginning or an end?
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