The first thing we saw was a big chimney that expelled the soot of lost brothers and sisters that couldn’t breathe anymore.

I just remember that he looked like a man in no hurry, like he owned time.

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!

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.

A diminutive man with a slight paunch, he was too light to be black but too dark to be white.

Ndaba writes on the many ills of child marriages.