Far off in the beaming sun, a Kenyan woman stoops hacking away at sugar canes. She stops to adjust her straw hat, one side of it has a dead flower pinned to it. That flower ne’er fleets her unless its been replaced. She tends to hold on to things and give people the benefit of the doubt–
“What a lady” the workers comment. As soon as she walks up the path, children and women with fruits stop to greet her. They yell “jumbo” and “Asifewe”. Men tend to smile as they wipe the sweat from their brow, biking along the path to the market.
My father once said that when departing, the lady with my name who was bestowed with it first, had flowers flourish where she had beenbefore.