Truck, Bajaj, Foot

Driving by the beggar woman in my truck, I see her crumpled, crippled legs
dragging behind her on the concrete.
In a bajaj, the mud caking her feet is broken by flies landing on trying-to-heal scrapes
By foot, her yellowed eyes are shattered by a hundred red capillaries.
She answers my shikamoo with a dull marahaba as I drop coins into her hand.

When I drive my truck into town,
the ladies walking with tubs of mchicha on their heads seem very slow-moving.
From a bajaj, they look like they are enjoying their talking and walking.
When I walk, I greet them and learn they have been up for several hours already,
happy to be selling their bean leaves
and getting back to their children and dinner preparations.

By truck, I pass twelve bajajis in a row, waiting for customers at the Kawe roundabout.
From my bajaj, I see the drivers sitting on blocks behind the line of moneymakers
and behind them, two women preparing lunch at a stand near the corrugated wall.
On foot, the little boy sitting in the doorway behind the charcoal cooker becomes visible.
His mother smiles at his curiosity at the passing mzungu woman.

From the truck, the new duka near the roundabout seems interesting
By bajaj, I see chicken feeders
made from galvanized steel plates with an upside-down bucket on top.
Reminders of those my father made for our chickens when I was young.
On foot, I stop and touch homemade baskets and furniture from all over the city
and choose a sweet treat for my children.

In the truck, I see the babu, in his taqiyah, leaning against the wall.
By bajaj, I notice his left leg is missing.
On foot, I offer a meek shikamoo.
He doesn’t seem to notice me.

In my truck, the hijab of the woman walking along the road looks hot and uncomfortable.
From my bajaj, I see the fine embroidery and detail in the tailored overgarmet, and notice her perfect eye makeup and stylish sandals underneath.
By foot, we exchange warm greetings and she invites me to join her for lunch at her favorite local spot.