The Hypermarket of ZANABIA
The Hypermarket of ZANABIA does not ask you what you want. It asks you who you are, at that exact moment. From the outside it looks vast—so vast that the walls seem to lean outward, as if making space for your thoughts before you even step in. Inside, aisles stretch not just forward but upward and sideways. Shelves rise like polite mountains. Objects hang gently from the walls and ceilings—lamps that hum softly, baskets of invisible spices, shoes dreaming of future walks. Everything floats in a quiet agreement with gravity, never challenging it, never obeying it fully. You do not search here. You feel. If your feeling is clear—hunger born of nourishment, need born of usefulness, joy born of readiness—the aisle responds. An apple may glide from a high shelf, pause mid-air as if confirming your intent, and then drop neatly into your trolley. A book may follow, unopened yet already understood. A scarf may land softly, knowing winter is approaching your heart before it reaches your city. But if the feeling is false—impulse dressed as need, vanity pretending to be purpose—nothing happens. You may tug, plead, even apply strength. The item will remain still. In ZANABIA, effort cannot replace honesty. The staff glide through this wonder with calm pride. All are peacock-headed, their feathers muted yet iridescent, dressed in elegant uniforms that never wrinkle. They do not sell. They observe. Occasionally one nods, not in approval, but in recognition—yes, that suits you now. The owner, Mr. Swanse, is impossible to miss and equally impossible to interrupt. A dragonfly head crowned with enormous spectacles, impeccably dressed, walking slowly but purposefully despite being well into his seventies. His eyes see everything twice—once as it is, and once as it will be. He never interferes. He designed the system long ago and has trusted it ever since. Billing counters exist, polished and ceremonial. You push your trolley there not to pay, but to complete. The moment it rests at the counter, the amount gently dissolves from your bank account—no alerts, no receipts waved about. Trust is the currency; balance is merely arithmetic. Security is present, but it feels like kindness. Unicorn-headed guards in soft grey suits stand near entrances and exits, each holding fresh flowers. They offer one to every visitor, regardless of purchase. There are no weapons, no warnings, no suspicion. In a place where nothing unnecessary can be taken, protection is only symbolic. When you leave the Hypermarket of ZANABIA, your trolley is lighter than expected. Not because you bought less—but because you bought only what was true. And that, in ZANABIA, is considered the highest form of wealth.
