BabaGilbert comes home unable to contain his excitement; a well placed friend of his has given him good news. After years of being reduced to scrounging to make ends meet selling chicken feet and airtime he and his wife are about to make a quick recovery. His connection has told him that the Zimbabwe dollar is about to make a comeback. The Unity Government and the multicurrency system ruined his dealer business, but things are about to change. When the Zim-dollar comes back BabaGilbert is going to make it bigger than before; he is going to open a bank.

Next door lives a teacher, Justice. His girlfriend, Happiness Dube, won’t let him forget that she is their primary bread winner. Happiness has managed to maintain her business through the transition, doing deals in town during the day and drinking and partying all night. For Justice nothing has really changed since the days of the dollar. He is still underpaid, unable to buy his girlfriend a decent engagement ring. Scorned by Happiness and convinced that the dollar is about to make a comeback, Justice quits his teaching job and joins Baba naAmai Gilbert Merchant Bank as a manager.

Colours of Dreams is an hilarious tongue in cheek portrait of those Zimbabweans who prospered in the last days of the Zimbabwe Dollar.

Bhekumusa Moyo is a talented young Zimbabwean writer. Here are his reflections on the impact of HIV in the small border town of Beitbridge:

The sex worker in a developing town in a developing nation

Beitbridge is characterized by a hive of activity and business ranging from formal to informal, legal to illegal. Life is fast and the cost of living is double that of other towns like Harare and Bulawayo. One is either robbing or is being robbed. One is either bribing or is being bribed. One is either selling sex or someone is buying.

I have followed closely the life of Chido who has been in the sex industry for 23 years. She is being called by her first name even by young boys of her son’s age. Her life has been revolving around being fucked and sucking from sex hungry men. I met her at Kalahari Sports Bar. She is 39 though she looks younger because of skin peeling creams.

Narrating her ordeal, she quickly demanded beer as we talked. Like many young women who end up hooked into the evil net of the world’s oldest profession, she came into the business not by choice. She was on her way to South Africa. On her first quest to cross the border via the Vembe crossing spot which many border jumpers use, she met the horror of her life, which transformed her to what she is today. She was raped in exchange for favors to cross the river. None of the rapists managed to get her across the river until one Mpisi (a man who escorts border jumpers across the Limpopo River), took her to Baghdad Squatter Camp in Beitbridge. Baghdad was situated by the Beitbridge long distance bus terminus back then. It was destroyed during Muramatvsina invasions, as it was a breeding ground for all crime and ill activity.

The man introduced her to Mai Tinashe who was the aunt of the prostitutes in the area. That is how she came to surrender her life to the twin devices of sex and booze risking her life to HIV. Now she doesn’t even give a damn.

At 18, she had her first child with a Zambian truck driver. A year later the affair with the Zambian ended as he changed routes and all contact was lost. There was no one to support her. The option that was always there for her was the obvious. She continued putting herself at risk as a way of supporting her child.

She remains earning her income, reeling under different sizes of men and enduring the penetration of all sizes and shapes of shafts. Her life is surrendered to the grave. She speaks of her clients as fools. On the subject of HIV, she shows no remorse. Straight faced she told me to fuck off because anytime, anyone can die. She says death is death.

During our discussion, a couple of things came up. The subject of making prostitution a legal profession was top. This, she says, will make all players safe, the client and the service provider. She says that parents who do not love their children, ignoring them and exposing them to conditions that disturb their minds, cause moral decadence.

It was around midnight. She looked me in the eye and said “How about us tonight? $50 only. “  I said “no”. She insisted. I told her that I was only 23, two years older than her son and asked her what she thought of this. She said pussy is pussy, whether from a granny or schoolgirl and she accepts any stick that comes her way, for a price. I gave her $30 and we parted ways.

Beitbridge is at risk because of HIV. Médecins Sans Frontières (MSF) says that there are almost 8000 prostitutes in the border town. A lot needs to be done before the town is wiped out.

By Bhekumusa Moyo

Bhekumusa is a civic activist, a poet, researcher and freelance writer based in Bulawayo, Zimbabwe and can be contacted on bhekumusamoyo [at] gmail [dot] com

The other day I went to Surveyor General’s office to get a 1:50 000 scale map. Like I have been doing since 1971. Same thing, walk in front door, into maps on the left, ground floor. Find index, find map sheet reference. Take it to staff, they send off to the storeroom, and along comes the map. Check it, it is the one I want, pay for it, get receipt, exit to Samora Machel. Fast, efficient, courteous, fine service.

But not this time! Service is good, as always (although there was a shortage of maps at one stage), but they won’t take my money. I have to go to the tenth floor to pay, bring back receipt. I do this. And on the way up, (the lift works, but it is slow getting there, and there are still ten floors to be lifted through), I am thinking. This is life in a dictatorship.

It is all central. Power, and authority, derive from the centre. It all must go to, and come from, the middle. Gone are the days when you could pay the clerk, check your receipt, walk out the door. ‘Authority’ no longer comes from the people. From basic morals. Common sense. Logic. ‘Authority’ only comes from the centre (from where POWER also comes). Reminds me of High School (and that is a while back) learning definitions to spice up essays with. ‘Realpolitik’ the concept that decisions are divorced from moral considerations – dictated by the necessities of power and judged only by success.

So, since the power and authority derive from the middle (where decisions are made), and not from the people (who have the needs, the wants, the common sense, the simple decency, the basic morals), or even from the rule books (constitution, legislation, codes of conduct), it follows that ‘activity’ (especially financial) must also be done in the centre. After all, we have leadership by example.

The people on the ground floor cannot handle money.

When there was this huge business moguls shindig east of the country [wise men eh?] a few weeks ago about constructing a billion-dollar economy in the next two decades, news copy was awash with glowing editorialising about these men and women pitching their blueprint for a fabulously rich Zimbabwe. If the country’s political gladiators set aside their differences surely the USD1 billion economy was not a psychedelic reverie. With the right political will and economic genius from the private sector, Zimbabwe would be the biggest economy south of the Sahara.

The Vee Pee Mujuru was hailed for speaking with the level headedness that appeared to have surprised many: this is the commitment the country needs from its political leaders, the business heavies heaved. All the contradictions that have emerged in this country about promoting investment on one had and threatening – and indeed going ahead with – company takeovers were set aside or conveniently forgotten, after all what was to be gained by raising those concerns when there was an economy to be [re]built, money to be made, jobs created, detractors shamed, etc. Yet the very issues that were identified as inimical to the creation of a billion-dollar economy have been revisited on the country with doubled resolve. Which investor wants to put his money where cops gas mourners, throws teargas into churches, deny political parties and law abiding citizens right to assemble, bans free thought rallies etc.

We already know that some major potential investors are from countries where liberal democracy rules the day and companies are only too aware that choosing countries that do not respect human rights risk a boycott of their business. So how do we have it both ways such that we liberally and violently suppress prayers for peace and at the same time lobby international investors who come from backgrounds that respect human rights to pour in their multi-millions to create jobs and build that billion-dollar economy? Obviously these are questions that are not of concern to the authorities who unleash such brute force on “peace-loving Zimbabweans,” but you sure feel sorry for those heavy weights who pitched this billion-dollar economic utopia that while they obviously mean well, the very folks to whom they pitch these grand plans throw spanners and gonyets into the works. But for what exactly? Such a pity, living in the city is like living in the time of Frank Nitty.

We need some people like Nuhu Ribadu in Zimbabwe. Our health care system is in tatters yet Mugabe gets the best medical treatment. His children are in the best schools. His house could house a thousand homeless. Here’s an interview from Monocle magazine . . . really worth a subscription.

Clean Start

Nigeria’s first anti-corruption chief Nuhu Ribadu was so effective he was sacked and fled the country, fearing for his life. Now he’s back running for president.

When Nuhu Ribadu launched his presidential campaign at the end of last year, he took to the stage clutching a broom. This was a symbol of his pledge to clean up Nigeria, Africa’s most populous country and the continent’s biggest oil and gas producer, where vast energy revenue have mostly been diverted into the pockets of the elite.

Ribadu says he is the country’s best chance for reform in an election due on 9 April (Since delayed to 16 April). Yet just one year ago, Ribadu felt unable to set a foot in Nigeria, let alone lead it. As the first head of Nigeria’s Economic and Financial Crimes Commission, set up in 2003, Ribadu had pursued corrupt politicians, civil servants and the country’s “419″ internet scammers.

But challengers to Nigeria’s “big men” are rarely tolerated for long. He was soon forced to take a year’s leave, suffered death threats and fled to the UK. He only returned home last year after the unexpected death of President Umaru Ya’Adua. He speaks to Monocle about his political ambitions.

Monocle: Nigeria is Africa’s giant, yet it is widely considered to fall short of its potential. What is holding it back?
Nuhu Ribadu: Corruption is at the root of everything. If the money that belongs to the state ends up in a few hands and is used for negative purposes, there will certainly be no money for development. Our presidential fleet has more than 10 aircraft, but the country doesn’t have a single good hospital.

M: How would you reform Nigeria?
NR: I would be an honest leader. This is a very top-down place, where corruption happens simply because leaders are doing it. Second, I will open up the oil industry and follow the Extractive Industries Transparency Initiative. Third, I will clean up the justice system and police force and create laws to protect whistleblowers.

M: Nigeria’s ruling People’s Democratic Party has won every poll since army rule ended in 1999. Is there any chance for opposition candidates like you?
NR: The PDP has never won a proper election and this year we are taking steps to ensure that you cannot steal elections easily. This is a real chance for the opposition and the country.

M: How should the international community react if the poll is rigged? After the last polls in 2007, they criticised the widespread fraud but accepted the results.
NR: The time has come for the international community to insist that things are done correctly. If the outcome is not to their standards, they should not recognise the winner.

M: How will you run a clean campaign in a political system that relies on corrupt god-fathers and sponsors? Will you probe your own backers?
NR: I’m not a policeman anymore. I’m trying to lead. So I won’t say that, if you donate a car to me, I’ll start probing and checking and saying I must know where you get your money. But that also doesn’t mean that I’ll take big money from anyone who brings it.

M: Do you still fear for your life? What security measures do you take?
NR: It’s not my nature to travel in an armed convoy. I’m not 100 percent safe but neither is anyone who lives in a country like Nigeria. My situation is only a little worse than that of others.

Source: Monocle

Having spent a couple of days looking at Zimbabwe through a camera lens I’ve noticed that there are more people living in poverty than I originally thought, or perhaps it’s that I’ve been forced to take more notice. It’s easy to be distracted while a woman, or a child, weaves through waiting cars begging for some change, or to walk hurriedly past as an old grime-covered woman sits at a street corner rattling a metal bowl with coins. I’ve seen it so often it doesn’t even register anymore.

When I look through the lens, I am not distracted; I see them and feel the guilt of privilege and not knowing the appropriate action to take. I want to help, I just don’t know how. Should I write a strongly worded letter to my MP, whose name or address I don’t know? Should I take it up with Harare City Council and demand that they remove the homeless and beggars from the streets? Where would they go? After Operation Murambatsvina where the people became the ‘tsvina’, is that a humane plan of action?

I’ve had wild fantasies about opening a soup kitchen or a shelter. It would be a modest sort of dormitory large enough to sleep every homeless person I’ve seen, and more that I haven’t. It would be a safe, warm place with food to fill every hungry stomach. It would be so many things to so many people. .. my fantasies have remained just that.

They tell you not to give homeless people money, they don’t tell you what the alternative is. Young and seemingly unoccupied men have asked to be paid for their picture. They need money to buy ZED to dull their existence. I suppose they have a right to demand money, don’t celebrities demand payment for their pictures too? And in a way it does seem as though I’m taking advantage of their situations, their poverty to add to my portfolio of pictures. And again, I am wracked with guilt, how can I accuse others of profiting from suffering when I am doing the very same thing? I am paid to do what I do.

Often when I am allowed to take the photo I see the pain in someone who is barely holding on, and trying to make it through just one more day. But I also see quiet resolve, that resilience that Zimbabweans are so famous for. And I feel shame for all the times I was undignified in moments of what is comparatively mild discomfort.