The Things We Catch Without Looking.

Kateb-Nuri-Alim
2 days ago
8 min read

Author’s Opening Note

Here is an unknown fact they do not put on postcards or whisper during carriage rides. New Orleans does not just remember its past. It keeps it moving. Memory here does not sit still. It drifts. It hums. It taps you on the shoulder while you are mid bite of a beignet and asks if you are paying attention. This city does not bury lessons. It circulates them.

I learned that early. Not from a book. From watching people take things without asking where they came from. From seeing hands reach out just because something glittered. From hearing laughter that sounded joyful but felt hollow. New Orleans has always understood exchange. Trade. Bargain. Barter. What it also understands is cost. Some prices are not printed. Some receipts show up later.

I am writing this because I have watched too many good people become unfamiliar to themselves. Same walk. Same voice. Something missing behind the eyes. Like a room where the furniture stayed but the warmth moved out. We blame stress. We blame time. We blame age. But sometimes it is simpler and scarier than that. Sometimes we accepted something we did not need because it was free or pretty or offered sweet.

I am also writing this with love and a little side eye. Because we all do it. Me too. I have caught things I should have let hit the ground. Smiled at offers that were not meant for me. Said yes out of politeness instead of discernment. And New Orleans being New Orleans will let you learn your lesson with rhythm and humor before it lets you learn it with pain.

This story came to me the way most truths do. Uninvited. It carries laughter. It carries shadow. It carries a woman named Maye who smiles like she knows something you do not. It carries hula hoops and beads and magic that does not announce itself as danger. It carries a warning dressed like a blessing.

Read this slowly. Laugh where it is funny. Feel uneasy where it tightens. Ask yourself what you have caught lately. Ask yourself what you are wearing that does not feel like you anymore. And if at any point you feel seen a little too clearly, do not flinch. That is the point.

This is not a ghost story.

This is a mirror.

Written with heart, humor, and respect for the spirits that still walk these streets.

The Things We Catch Without Looking.

A French Market Folklore About Free Gifts, Swapped Souls, and the Cost of Easy Yes

Written by Kāteb Shunnar

The first time I saw Maye she was standing where the French Market breathes the loudest. Where spices argue with sugar. Where shrimp shells crunch underfoot and history sweats through brick. She did not have a booth. She did not need one. She moved like she belonged to the place itself, like the market would feel incomplete without her passing through.

She was not loud. That is what caught people. In a city where everybody hollers, Maye spoke soft. A voice like warm air slipping through lace curtains. Creole words curling gentle at the edges. You almost leaned forward without realizing it.

Hula hoops

Get your free hula hoop cher

Her smile could have fed a family. Wide and generous. Gold and silver teeth flashing like small moons tucked inside her mouth. Not flashy. Familiar. Like she had always been smiling that way and you were late noticing. Her eyes though. That was the part. They did not just look at you. They paused you. Made your thoughts slow down like streetcars near the river.

She drifted from the French Market down toward the Moonwalk where the Mississippi rolls by pretending it does not know all your business. Tourists loved her. Locals pretended not to but still watched. Kids followed her like she was a parade with no brass band.

You want one baby

Free as the breeze

Before she handed anyone a hula hoop she always did the same thing. She stepped back. Placed it around her waist. Let it spin. Perfect rhythm. Not rushed. Not showy. Just enough to remind your body it remembered joy. Then she stopped. Smiled again. Handed it over.

Now give it a spin darling

Just like that

The first swap I witnessed happened to a man in a pressed linen shirt who smelled like hotel soap and confidence. He laughed easy. Took the hoop. Spun it once. Maybe twice. And then his laughter stuttered. Not loud. Just a hiccup in the sound. His eyes unfocused like a radio between stations.

For half a second the world felt thin. Like someone pulled a curtain too fast.

I saw it. I know I did. Something slipped out of him. Not smoke. Not light. Something quieter. Like breath leaving glass. And something else slid in. The man blinked. Smiled again. Thanked her. Walked off toward the river.

But the walk was wrong. The rhythm was off. His shoulders carried weight that did not belong to him. He looked around like everything was familiar but meant for someone else.

Maye did not watch him leave. She was already turning.

Hey you

Catch the magic

She tossed beads next. Purple and green glinting in the sun. She chose her people carefully. Looked them over like she was reading a menu only she could see.

That chere look good on you

Go on now put it on

A young woman hesitated. That hesitation almost saved her. Almost. She laughed. Slipped the beads over her head. And just like that she was gone. Still standing. Still breathing. But gone. Her eyes filled with something ancient and confused. Somewhere far away another soul woke up wearing a body that did not feel like home.

That was when my stomach dropped.

That was when I realized Maye was not giving anything away.

She was collecting.

And the worst part was this.

Nobody forced anyone.

They caught what was thrown.

And Maye kept smiling.

To be continued in Part Two

Part Two

What Smiles Take When Hands Are Open.

A Warning About Discernment, Silence, and Becoming the Thing You Watched.

The thing about soul swapping is this. It is quiet. It does not scream. It does not announce itself with thunder or smoke. It feels like a small misalignment at first. Like wearing somebody else’s shoes that almost fit. You tell yourself you will break them in.

I started noticing it everywhere after that first day. In the French Market especially. Folks walking around with eyes that did not quite land. Conversations that skipped a beat. Laughter that came out on time but did not arrive from the right place. You could see it clear as day if you knew how to look. Like watching the Creole Queen cross the Mississippi and pretending you do not feel the pull of the water beneath you.

The swapped ones had a hunger they could not name. They kept buying things they did not need. Kept chasing noise. Kept reaching outward. Their insides sounded empty when they spoke. Not sad exactly. Just hollow. Like a drum with a loose skin.

And Maye. She stayed busy.

Some days she started in Dutch Alley where art leans against brick like it is tired of explaining itself. Some days Basin Street. Always moving. Always smiling. Always offering. Hula hoops. Beads. Little trinkets that caught the light just right. She never chased anyone. That was her rule. She let curiosity do the work.

I watched her for weeks before I realized the pattern. She did not approach people who were rooted. Folks who knew who they were. Folks who carried grief but had made peace with it. She skipped them like a song skipping a verse. She went straight for the ones already leaking. The ones aching to be more than they were without knowing what that meant.

One afternoon I followed her all the way down the Moonwalk. The river was high. The air thick. She stopped near a bench where an older man sat feeding pigeons with one hand and staring at the water with the other. She did not speak at first. Just stood there. Smiling.

You look like you done lost something

she said softly

The man laughed. Shook his head. Took the beads she offered without thinking. Slipped them on. And I swear to you I saw his shoulders straighten. His eyes sharpen. Somewhere else someone older suddenly slumped with a sigh they had been holding for years.

That was when I understood the cruelty of it. Maye was not killing people. She was rearranging them. Trading souls like cards. Letting people live lives they did not earn and forcing others to wake up inside bodies that did not belong to them. It was theft dressed like generosity.

I confronted her near Café Du Monde at dawn when the air smells like coffee and forgiveness. I asked her why. She tilted her head like the question amused her.

Why people take what they do not need

she asked back

Why people eat when they already full

Why people say yes when their spirit say no

Her smile softened.

I do not steal

I offer

They choose

That was when she told me what Maye really meant. Not a name. A role. An old one. Older than the market. Older than the river as we know it. She said there were always Maye's Always watchers. Soul eaters some called them. Balance keepers others whispered. They appeared when people forgot discernment. When free looked better than true.

Then she said something that cracked me open.

You think the swapped souls are victims

But the ones who took

They already gone

I wanted to argue. Wanted to fight her. But she leaned closer and lowered her voice.

You ever notice the ones who never take from me

They shine quiet

They already fed

That night I went home and sat with it. Sat with myself. Asked hard questions. Counted all the things I had caught over the years because they were shiny or easy or praised by people who did not know me. Counted the ways I had traded depth for convenience. Peace for approval. Truth for applause.

That is when the acronym came to me. Clear as if whispered.

S O U L

Stop

Observe

Understand

Listen

Stop before you reach.

Observe what is being offered and why.

Understand the cost beyond the surface.

Listen to the part of you that does not need convincing.

That is how you keep your soul intact.

The plot twist came weeks later when I realized something that still sits heavy in my chest. Maye stopped appearing. The French Market felt different. Quieter somehow. Less charged. People walked lighter. Some of the swapped ones seemed to be waking up slowly. Finding themselves again.

And then one morning I caught my reflection in a shop window and froze.

My eyes lingered too long.

My smile felt practiced.

I remembered every time I had stood nearby and not spoken up. Every time I had watched and learned instead of warned. Every time I justified silence as observation. That is when it hit me.

Maye had not disappeared.

She had moved.

Into those of us who know better but say nothing.

The real folklore is this. The soul eater does not always wear gold teeth or carry beads. Sometimes it looks like passivity. Sometimes it looks like spiritual pride. Sometimes it looks like knowledge without compassion.

We become Maye when we let people take what will cost them everything and call it freedom.

That is the warning wrapped in this story. Not about hula hoops or beads. About discernment. About remembering that not everything free is harmless. Not everything offered is meant for you. And not everything shiny feeds the spirit.

New Orleans knows this. That is why it teaches through music and ghosts and humor sharp enough to cut. That is why it laughs while telling you the truth.

If you feel unsettled right now good. That means your soul is still home.

Author’s Closing Words

If this reflection stirred something in you if it made you laugh and then sit quiet if it held a mirror up you did not expect please share it by any positive means you know how. Stories like this live or die by word of mouth and heart to heart passing.

If you are able please consider donating to support my writing and this blog. Your support helps keep these reflections alive and reaching the people who need them most.

Thank you for walking these streets with me.

Thank you for guarding your soul.

Written with love truth and New Orleans spirit

Kāteb Shunnar