Teatime in Nairobi and we had marble cake.
"It's MOST fresh", promised the quaint Parsee ladies who ran
the shop.
Shyly smiling, they beamed hopefully at us
From beneath a veil of rouge and white face-powder.
Teeth disarranged with the years, two cake-baking sisters,
Pickled in old cologne and proud of their wares.

Dusty and dark, the teashop should have smelled of vanilla
And half-baked eggs, not mildew and kerosene.
Outside, children with pus in their eyes begged
half-heartedly,
Their hands cupped without conviction.
And under the mauve canopy of the twin jacarandas,
Bollywood faces grinned up from year-old magazines
Sold on the stone-slabbed pavement.