Women on mopeds

My baby rides a moped,
bush taxi not her style.
the way the wind flow through her boubou,
make me wanna smile.

She got a monthly payment,
but that don’t get her down,
she go where she want to go
as long as it’s in town.

She don’t take no rider,
she not that kinda gal,
maintain control, don’t wanna roll
down into those canals.

When she at a stoplight,
she let that shoulder bare.
some say women shouldn’t ride, but
everybody stare.

One thing I can’t figure out
’bout her and her machine,
is how she ride to work and back
and stay so squeaky clean.

My baby gets me down it hurts me so
I tell you why,
cuz when we meet, I’m on my feet,
she passes me right by.

Beggars’ anonymous

Toubab when you pass by me,
what is it those cat’s eyes see
that turns them to the noisy street
so you can’t hear me when I greet?

Are you ‘fraid you’ll catch my mange
if you keep your pocket change?
Or maybe if you give to me
that everyone around will see?

Is that why you hurry by?
Does the sunlight hurt your eyes?
Or is it what you never say
That makes you paler every day?

My palm is flat, my bones are showing,
no fingers left to grasp a coin,
my ears are sharp, I know the sound,
but I can’t pick it off the ground.

Lay gently please, my palm is up,
I’ll drop it in my metal cup,
I found it in a pile of grey
some poor old fool had tossed away.

Our sister in the metal cart
braves traffic to perform her art
and jump the curb before the green,
when motors howl and streets turn mean.

Are there beggars on your streets?
Isn’t it polite to greet?
And what could make you want to be
so far from home and family?

Your brow pours out the hours you waste,
no time left to arrest your pace,
the sidewalk is alive (with us)
you tell yourself you’ll miss the bus,
if you think this nightmare ends,
cross the street and meet my friends.

All you’ve got to do is give,
all I’ve got to do is live,
we may be one in Allah’s eyes,
but no one told the rats or flies.

Waiting for the taxi to fill …

Oh God here they come those street urchins again,
singing creepy songs through the windows of the van
with a voice of despair, but they’re not aware,
as long as they fill their tomato sauce cans.

Why can’t they leave can’t they see that I’m tired??
They’re certainly not the Vienna Boys’ Choir
(It may hurt your ears, that’s not your worst fear,
fix on the frying pan, turn from the fire).

They’re pesky as flies but harder to shoo,
compliments of the Grand Marabout,
tomorrow’s scholars must beg for today’s,
a real holy man must first pay his dues.

Line them all up one by one single file,
when the last straw nears the rear turn the dial,
oh what a mess, I get so depressed,
lucky for us that they can still smile.