The Woman At Bus Stage 5

I see her almost every evening at Stage 5, and every evening I tell myself I'll say something, and every evening the bus comes before my courage does.

She's usually holding a small boy's hand, the kind of grip that says "don't you dare run into that road," while balancing a laptop bag on one shoulder and a nursery school bag with a cartoon giraffe on the other. Nairobi doesn't care that you're a mother and an employee at the same time. It just hands you both bags and says "beba, tu enda."

The first time I actually noticed her — really noticed — was the day it started raining without warning, the way Nairobi rain loves to humiliate people who trusted the weather. Everyone scattered under the one small shed at the stage, shoulder to shoulder, strangers suddenly sharing body heat and awkward eye contact. She was trying to shield her son with her jacket, and the boy was more interested in stomping in the small...