Harare's dark. A dark city where street lights are now ragged flagpoles holding up the billlowing black sky. And the black sky shines down on us. It shines down on the gaping potholes-now-ponds. It shines on the broken bottles of imported beers that now ironically litter local streets. It shines down on the single file queues of prostitutes who line Harare's avenues. As rooted to the scenery as its trees. Black sky shines down on the police looking to arrest the prostitutes. And extort sex from them in a dingy avenue. The sky shines on the shadows that live behind the trees. The tsotsis who wait to stab a body for a few worthless Zim dollars and a cellphone. The sky shines down on the bodies huddled in shop doors. Not waiting for food. Just waiting to die. The black sky shines on us all. Every evening. After sunset. These are our home affairs.
