Java. Nkt!

When I walked into Java on Koinange street a second time, it was because I had decided that I would review the place, spread the word and tell on them!
I chose a different seat this time, the empty couch on the side under the large painting of a street lined with houses; on the first house hung a sign written in Chinese, Japanese, Portuguese, smelling cheese... I hoped that now, in my bright pink sweater, and in the middle of the room, I might be noticed sooner by the good waitresses.

I’m jealous of Lupita…

I can’t stand the way the world is grovelling at her feet,
as she smiles and poses
In amazing swathes of brightly coloured fabric
Stitched into awe inspiring silhouettes
In the moody light of the famous fashion photographers’ studios

I cry for you.

I am angry!

I am so mad right now.

I want to cry. I want to sit at a corner, hold myself and cry! Not muffled sobs that no one will hear,  but loud screams, heart wrenching and body shaking screams! I want to throw myself on the ground and stand up and throw myself down again and again….if only to take the pain away.

My heart aches. My soul cries out.

For every child and every woman, with child or in their sunset years. For every single woman and child who had to experience Westgate. For every mother who bled and every child who cried, my tears cannot be shed enough to release this pain that my heart has refused to let go of!

I cry for you! I cry with you!

For anyone who has nobody to cry with them, I cry with you.

I am still angry! I am still mad!

May time pass

May the pain fade

And

May my tears dry

But only as soon as yours do

God have mercy on us!

Stalled in the slum...

It's just about 9:30am and the train slows down and comes to a shuddering halt.
The passengers look at each other, eyes wide open, questioning...slightly alarmed.
They twist their necks to look out of the window...to the sight of filthy  children playing in the mud, to the piles of garbage and idlers puffing clouds of smoke into the air,
To a tall dark man in a dark green short sleeved kaunda suit, walking slowly along the railway track.

Drat!
Damn!

Freezing for the late train!

We were seated like regular patrons of the ancient restaurant.

Neglected and leaking from the lighting fixtures

Neglected, I must add, because if it wasn't, I wouldn't be shocked at the stream of water pouring from the light fixture (yes, the electricity, the water....) on the far ceiling of the restaurant nor would I have been aghast at the sight of a rat scurrying across the stained and rugged old, grey, cement floor that had counted endless footsteps in and out of the small, old, cob-webby room; a room whose door had a shiny, round, brass knob that I'd have loved to have as a souvenir. A room that had the smell of freshly baked cake!