There are no cafeteria tables in Kenya.
But about 150 Kenyan kids
race toward the smell of boiling maize
forcing their way to the front of the crowd
hands waving in the air like they just don’t care
dead centre in the sky
meaning it’s time to fill each bowl and eat.
My eyes land on the only girl without a bowl.
She stands in line less enthused than the others
sees the same empty bowls I do, waving in the air
hears the same voices I do, excited for food
but she’s hiding her hand beneath a sleeve
holding a pocket-sized portion of a ripped piece
of a grocery bag
something she must have found along the road
on her walk to school today
She runs away
attempts to use that dirty piece of plastic bag like a spoon
sticking her hand into the other kids’ bowls
She gets swatted away like an uninvited kiss.
I watch her contemplate if it’s even worth the fight anymore
and I wonder
what would I do?