Woven like a basket in and out of
Machine openings
Dodging past ditches, diving
Below ground level.
Dwat (right): past the National
Petrol station on the corner.
Through the street with pedestrians, merchants,
Mangos, fig, banan, eggs, fried food delights.
Revved engine, Bwini alerts, warns, intimidates
Crossing women, men, and children—not
Slowing down, but taking the right away.
Stuck between tap tap and wheel barrow
Overflowing with sugar cane—some sliced, others
Whole, long, uncut.
Inwardly, I perk up. Secretly craving a “close call,”
What a fool I am to seek such a thrill.
To my delight, my leg, my thigh brush up against
The barrow of sweet fibrous branches
Of sugar cane,
And I am instantly alive,
And I’ve had a close call, a touch with the street.
I know I’m a fool, but in the moments in between
Predictability and control,
My heart throbs to reach out and touch the
Edge, in small doses
Even though it might not be wisdom that entreats me.
