You won’t believe it, but fix it in your head:
even in Kenya, workers have their day instead.
Strange, for those who earn so little, so slow,
that working harder and faster just wouldn’t go,

It’s the feast of those unemployed since before their birth,
whose only “permanent” things are promises and political worth.
They’re precarious, wary, and pre-unemployed too,
and can’t quite manage to feel worried through and through.

Of those who love every holiday, no condition, no plea,
because too many were “made” on them—and their family.
Of those who shoulder cement by the ton and by strain,
of those frying cassava through wind and through rain,

Of the prostitutes with a union to defend their trade,
of cheap poison brewers in the shadows they’ve made,
of villages where patriarchy still holds the throne,
yet without women, a man stands lost and alone.

It’s the feast of those who never clock in on time,
but stamp out their hunger with a neighbor’s meal in rhyme,
of those driving matatus like madness set free,
dodging potholes and fate, humming casually,

Of those at the market weighing tomatoes and grace,
bargaining prices with skill you can’t replace,
of those who return home with nothing to show,
but bring back a laugh—else the whole shack would go.

It’s the feast of those studying by borrowed light,
on a wobbly chair, backs bent through the night,
who speak three languages, silence unknown,
and sign their agreements with a finger alone.

It’s the feast of those praying nonstop, no leave,
counting coins like truths they cannot deceive,
of those who’ve awaited tomorrow far too long,
yet still cast some shade with a talent gone wrong.

It’s the feast of a Kenya that labors askew,
laughing straight, lest it cry itself through,
and if you ask, “who wins?” it answers clear:
it’s always someone who never sweats here.