kigali
loud
dusty
rain clouds rolling in push me here miss buy a banana I have no hand you have two.
little kids waving hi! Muzungo! White! Black women learning to sew learning to live. Do you know your body is your own - what they are willing to sell for money for the kids glued to their backs bending over sewing machine peddling one stitch after another sweat dripping-
sweet creamy coffee sipping in a café too clean for these streets. Man on an apple computer white woman speaking too slowly. I can understand you I speak English too. White skin shining like a beacon, my white skin, a ticket to a little more room in this crowded minibus, this motorcycle zipping through crowded streets holding tight closing eyes past busy traffic because there’s nothing I can do anyway, and I DO and I CARE because I CAME but how much do my deeds and my words mean in this place with a past so ugly it seeps into every piece of present and future and finally someone else squeezes next to me in the van
maybe not so white after all.
