Story by Lauren Tyson | Founder, Salt City Soapworks
If you’ve ever ordered from Salt City Soapworks, you’ve seen our little “a gift for you” bag. It’s not marketing. It’s a piece of my childhood, carried across continents and years.
As a child, I spent five formative years growing up in Lagos, Nigeria. Compound life was normal but isolating. I lived for one thing: a monthly excursion to Illisan Market - a bustling fruit and craft fair alive with color, noise, and barter.
The night before, I’d fill a bag with my toys and clothes, imagining the masks and carvings I might trade for. Too young to have money but determined to be part of the dance of trade, this was my solution, and the vendors loved it.
Illisan Market was a patchwork of stalls, each one built by its vendor from whatever repurposed material survived the weather. As I stepped out of the car, sweat beaded on my skin. I was greeted by the sour-sweet smell of rotting fruit mixed with hints of diesel. Then came the sharp “sssst!” - vendor's voices slicing through the noise to call me over. It startled me at first. Later, I lived for it.
My mother went right, toward the produce. I went left, to the tarp-covered stalls. I’d greet each vendor with a Yoruba handshake - palm, thumb, palm, snap - earning smiles and laughter from the men and children watching. I learned early not to show everything in my bag at once, a novice mistake that led to stolen goods.
Masks were my favorite. The older, more worn, the better. I didn’t know or care what they were used for; I just loved the history ingrained in the wood.
Bargaining was a test of endurance. I’d start with a toy. The vendor would demand naira. I’d counter, defending the worth of my item with all the conviction of a seasoned trader. Voices rose. Hands gestured. Nearby vendors shouted for me to see their masks, only to be scolded in a flurry of words I didn’t understand.
Eventually, I’d sigh, make a “tsk” through my teeth, and add another item to the trade. The vendor’s face rarely broke from stoicism. Disappointment was part of the dance - a way to test how badly I wanted it. Sometimes I’d pack my things to walk away. That’s when the magic happened.
A gesture.
A “tsk.”
A deal.
We’d seal it with a handshake. Then, without a word, the vendor would hand me something - an Ashanti bead, a pendant, or a small carved animal.
That act was called “dash.”
Dash wasn’t about money. It was about respect and goodwill. A way to say, “Thank you.”
I learned a lot about business and humanity in those markets: that generosity strengthens connection, and that gratitude is the final, essential step in any willing exchange.
Years later, when I started Salt City Soapworks, I found myself thinking about dash. That’s why every order - no matter how small - comes with a little something extra: a modern echo of a market lesson learned under the Nigerian sun. 💛