The vibe in the room had changed. It wasn't just a job interview anymore, it wasn't about proving what Alex knew or showing off skills. The stiff, corporate energy was gone, replaced by something more important. This was the start of a mentorship.
Raymond felt different too. He wasn't the guy in a sharp suit with all the answers anymore, he was the teacher. And Alex? Well, he wasn't the confused grad anymore, always wondering where his future was going. Now, he was a student, ready to learn lessons that no degree could teach him.
Raymond spoke in pictures, his voice calm and steady, like he was telling a story that carried centuries of wisdom. He talked about the early African villages, big, wide open spaces where survival depended on one thing: trade. One person had yams, another had fish, and another had clay pots. But here's the catch, people didn't always need what others had.
Raymond reached for a small pouch on his desk and pulled out a handful of cowrie shells. He placed them on the table slowly. They shone in the dim light, and their smooth surfaces were glowing faintly.
"These," Raymond said quietly, "are symbols. They don't mean anything on their own, but they carry a lot of meaning. These were the currency of empires. They made trade possible."
Alex leaned in, staring at the shells. They seemed simple, but the history behind them felt massive. Suddenly, it clicked, money wasn't just paper or coins. It was a shared belief, something everyone agreed had value.
Raymond tapped the shells again. "It's symbolic value. Money's not about what it is, it's about what it represents. These shells helped trade happen when barter couldn't anymore. And that's how economies started to grow."
The room fell silent for a moment. It was as if the words had weight that hung in the air. Then, Alex broke the silence.
"So… why are you teaching me all this?" His voice was hesitant, not out of defiance, but curiosity. He wanted to understand the purpose behind this lesson.
Raymond's eyes flickered; something unreadable was passing through them. Was it nostalgia, regret, or perhaps something else? For a second, Alex felt as though he were gazing into a man's soul, very deep and untold. But the moment passed quickly. Raymond straightened up, his usual confidence returning.
"Because if you don't understand money, Alex," he said, his voice steady but firm, "then someone else will always control you with it."
Alex exhaled slowly, the words heavy in his chest. The truth of it was simple, almost painful. His mind raced, trying to make sense of this new perspective, but his thoughts were interrupted as Raymond rose from his seat and walked to the window.
Raymond was staring outside, his posture reflecting that of a man who knew both the power and the fragility of this world.
"I want you to go out," Raymond said suddenly, still looking outside, his voice cutting through the silence like a sharp knife. "Pick a street market. Brixton, if you can get there. Busy. Diverse. Honest. Sit. Watch. And don't just see, observe. Look at what people buy and what they ignore. See how they move. Who controls what."
Alex blinked, unsure if he had heard him correctly. "You mean… spy on them?"
Raymond turned and smirked faintly through his lips, though his eyes remained serious. "Call it what you want. But every successful person I've ever met understands one thing: the market doesn't run on logic, it runs on behavior. Perception. Fear. Timing."
Raymond's words hung in the air, more unsettling than enlightening. Alex had always thought of the market as a place of transactions, simple exchanges of goods and services. But now it seemed that there was something deeper, something psychological at play.
Raymond returned to his desk and slid a small notebook made of leather across the table, its edges worn with age. It looked like something a field reporter from the 1960s might carry, old, important. The smell of cedar and ink filled the air as Alex picked it up, the weight of it almost symbolic.
"Take this," Raymond said with a steady tone. "And use a pen. Not your phone. Learn to think slowly."
Alex could feel the power of the moment as he held the notebook in his hands. It wasn't just paper and leather, it was a tool. A device for reflection and understanding.
"Where should I go?" Alex asked, still trying to figure out the weight of the task.
"Brixton," Raymond said again. "Observe what people buy. Look for the discrepancies. The fruit stall with no customers, next to the overpriced cupcake stand with a long queue. The butcher who knows everyone's name, compared to the one offering discounts and still being ignored. You'll find something there, Alex. Every market speaks."
Alex nodded, the idea was beginning to settle in his mind. It wasn't about price or product, it was more about human behavior, about understanding why people made the decisions they did.
Raymond turned back toward his bookshelf and pulled down a worn paperback titled The Mind of the Market. He handed it to Alex saying: "Read it. Mark it. Curse it if you want. But finish it before Friday."
"This isn't about making money, Alex," Raymond's voice was softer now, a distant echo, "It's about learning who does, and why."
Raymond's final words as he opened the door echoed in his mind the whole way down the lift:
"This isn't about making money, Alex. It's about learning who does, and why."
***
The next morning, Brixton Market was alive with chaos.
Alex stepped off the bus, his senses immediately overwhelmed by the energy of the market that's full of energy. The smell of fresh bread and the sound of vendors shouting prices competed with the chattering of customers and the distant hum of traffic. He felt a little out of place, so uncertain about what exactly he was supposed to be looking for. But as Raymond had said, it wasn't about what he saw, it was about what he observed.
He found a bench near the main strip, notebook open and pen in hand. At first, he just watched.
A woman walked up to a stall selling thick winter jackets, good zippers, warm, practical. She inspected one closely, turned it over, and then hesitated. After a moment of indecision, she walked across the street and bought a thinner jacket from another stall for five pounds more. Why? Alex couldn't fathom it. Was the first jacket not good enough? Or was it the price?
Alex scribbled in his notebook:
The value of the jacket isn't just the material, it's the perception of need.
A man walked past, loudly announcing, "Fresh mangos! Two for one!" But no one stopped. A stall nearby with perfect apples stacked high in neat pyramids had a queue.
The volume of noise does not equal attention. Trust might be silent. Value is perception.
Alex's mind was racing now. The pieces were starting to fall into place, but there was something else, something he couldn't quite grasp. And then he saw him.
A man in worn leather boots, standing quietly at the edge of the market. He wasn't selling anything, yet somehow he commanded the space around him. Every time he nodded, a vendor would adjust a price, change their approach, or speak more confidently.
Alex's pen scratched across the page:
Influence without transaction. Must find out who he is.
By the time the sun began to dip, his fingers were numb and the notebook already had two full pages of thoughts, observations, and questions. But one thing was clear: the market wasn't just a place of transactions, it was a place where human nature was on display.
As Alex made his way back to Raymond's flat that evening, half-frozen and electrified with thought, he couldn't help but feel that he was seeing the world in a new way.