It's one of those moments I freeze, I'm in the largest mall in the city, Designer brands all around me: Prada, Chanel, Louis Vuitton. I see a heavily made-up lady walk past me, The air around her saturated with Dolce & Gabbana perfume, Red-soled heels clinking against the tile, Arms laden with fashionable brand bags – such an exertion for her. She stops and takes a call on her jewel-encrusted iphone. “Where are you? Why's the porsche not here yet? I swear I'll fire that driver. He's stressing me.” She's worn ripped jeans. (On a size two body – from the Dukan diet.) Neat, intentional tears, designer-made. The ripped jeans of her world. I'm now in a carpenter's workshop in a little-known town, Wood shavings and scrap metal all around me, Nuts, bolts, broken pieces of wood. I see the carpenter walk past me. The air around him saturated with the stench of his sweat. The worn-out soles of his shoes slapping the parched earth in defiance. Arms laden with bits and pieces of cheap furniture piled high – barely an exertion for him. He places this at a corner and takes a call on his kabambe. “Uko wapi? Kunakaa mvua na bei za matatu zitapanda. Siku moja lazima ninunue baiskeli. Hii ni stress.” He's worn ripped jeans. (On a reed thin body – from the not-enough-food diet.) Jeans ripped by poverty and hustling. The ripped jeans of his world.