Six forty-five
The Nayna backpack has Nayna the cheetah's portrait printed in sublimation across the entire surface. Front zip pocket, drawstring main compartment, adjustable straps. What arrives is that: a printed backpack, light, made for everyday use.
At six forty-five in the morning Nayna has already been out for half an hour. She's been to Wakulima market for flowers — red if she can get them, 150 shillings, sometimes 200 if the stall guy sees in her face that she needs them more today — and she's crossed Haile Selassie Avenue with the bunch pressed against the handlebar of her CB125, weaving between empty matatus that run with no passengers at that hour. At six fifteen she's already on Lunga Lunga Road, in the industrial area of South B, pushing open the blue workshop gate with her free hand. First thing she does: put the flowers in an empty oil can on the workbench. Second: step out, cross three doors, and stop in front of mama Amina's stall.
Mama Amina is 55. She's been selling chai and mandazi from a sheet-metal stall three doors from the workshop every morning, since before Nayna rented the shed. She's not Nayna's friend. They're not close. They don't sit together and talk. What they are is something with no exact name that works better than most friendships: they're part of the same stretch of street.
