In front of where I am parked is a line of bicycles with grinding stones mounted over the rear wheels. Their owners have put down the stands. They are sitting on them backwards and peddling to turn their grindstones as they sharpen everything from steak knives to swords. In front of them a man sells plastic bags to be used by the boys who vie for the chance to help shoppers and earn a tip. I know a couple of the boys.
People are everywhere.
They are of all countries, kinds, faiths and tribes. Only the white people are in a hurry. Down a road to my left is Maasai Street, where red patterned sheets are made and sold. These will be tossed over the shoulder and worn as cloaks. I own six.