The city hums; infected with the collective eagerness to blow off steam.

Weaved, dressed, shoed and perfumed she appears to be a city bred woman. But I know that she hides her accent. She once bought an orange nearby; the R plays tricks on her tongue.

Chest out, a man struts from a black government sedan; he pays no mind to the security guard who rushes forth to greet him. To him, Windhoek is there for the taking and if you don’t have a piece of it you aren’t worth minding.

A church bell chimes 12 times. The echoes of it move through the quiet air and sound the night.

From nowhere, a young girl appears under a streetlight. Her clothes torn; hair dishevelled. Shaking, she turns her head to look at both sides of the street; she’s having difficulty choosing which way to go. Eyes wide, I the Watcher, listen to her panicked breathing. Racing down the street, she turns behind her to check for someone in pursuit. As her breathing grows faint, the night grows quiet.

And I remain, the Man who no one sees watching. It’s passed midnight and I shrug into my cloak of rags.



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