Kasi Sunday
The sun rises slow, casting light so sweet,
In the Kasi, where the streets meet.
Wheelbarrows roll with greens so fresh,
Hustlers hustle, working to impress.
On the corners, voices rise and fall,
“Tomatoes! Spinach! Come buy it all!”
The clink of coins, the sound of trade,
As Saturday's tiredness starts to fade.
Grandmothers with prayer beads in hand,
Walking slowly, their hearts so grand.
Hand in hand with little ones near,
Their laughter echoes, pure and clear.
The scent of stew fills the air,
Pots bubbling, food everywhere.
Mothers and daughters, side by side,
Stirring the pot with love and pride.
Some are at home, busy and bright,
Cooking up dishes to end the night.
And others gather, all smiles and grace,
Sunday in Kasi, a familiar place.
Here, the rhythm of life never rests,
A dance of hard work, faith, and the best.
In wheelbarrows, in kitchens, in church—
Sunday in the Kasi, where love doesn’t search.
It’s not in riches or fame we find,
But in shared moments, hearts intertwined.
Where vegetables are sold and prayers rise,
Sunday in the Kasi, under open skies.
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