The first thing we saw was a big chimney that expelled the soot of lost brothers and sisters that couldn’t breathe anymore.
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I just remember that he looked like a man in no hurry, like he owned time.
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I swear if you throw a stone at random in Hillbrow, you are likely to hit a Zimbabwean. Or some other African. Who that stone hits is up to fate!
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Zvenyika narrated his story as I wrote down notes in longhand. He had been charged with culpable homicide having run over an ageing priest on Beatrice Road, outside Harare, at night.
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A diminutive man with a slight paunch, he was too light to be black but too dark to be white.
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Ndaba writes on the many ills of child marriages.
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