I worry about the man who walks home at dawn, jacket in hand, his singlet brown and stiff from dirt while I rush in ankara paired with jeans skipping muddy puddles to save what is left of my shoes.
Conductor who chooses fight over paying the hound-like money collectors who clutch at his shirt that billows in the wind as he hangs, a week-worth of stench suffocating passengers.
Men who jump into the pool of water in the middle of the street to direct stubborn drivers to the right lanes and free up a road shrunk by the rain, which I run from, hiding under the umbrella of the woman who sells fruits, apple in my hand while I wave at the Suya seller, three hundred and dinner is set.
Women who stroll boldly in the night while I clutch my bag to my chest with its effects far cheaper than the things they carry in their bodies, looking back for whatever stands to jump me.
I worry about home, and rest, and lives fading into nothingness with no one to tell their stories.
Featured image via Gabriele Diwald