On the radio

I stopped by the local 'odd collection of products' store on the corner of Trill Road yesterday evening. It's got the usual cheap toilet paper, fridges of Coke, rows of condoms on a little shelf across from the rows of Smarties and Jelly Tots. It's also got okkah pipe tobacco, which was my reason for visiting. I went up to the counter and:
'Heya,' the shop owner and I smile at each other. I point and squint at the brightly coloured boxes to the left of his head, 'what flavours have you got?'
 'Come around' he replies, and waves me over.
I wiggle past empty crates and squeeze myself between the counter and the wall and then up a step to his platformed domain. As I'm choosing my flavours, a couple come in wanting to buy cigarettes, and wanting to pay with a card.
The shop owner shakes his head. 'Cash only.'

When I'm paying him for my boxes of 'Blue Mix', I realize that the music playing from two crackling speakers above the door is a radio station. The DJ speaks in rapid Francophone African French over the last bouncing refrains of the song. I smile at the shop owner again; aaah, so that was his accent.