Acts of assertion At airports: Bole International, Addis Ababa One would think it a gold-plated oil pipe if it was found anywhere else but on the passenger’s wrist. Even then the dimensions were adequate to traffic a newborn. Definitely more of what it was made of in little pellets or pewter format inside. The stuff usually dug out by officers wearing surgical gloves. The passenger began to yodel protests when the customs official, a swell lassie – if she wore aviators, it would be a living Ray-Ban ad – motioned
All around me was dark. I think it has been kept that way – midday outside but a kind of gloaming inside – probably the closest a visitor can be made to feel what went on in these narrow corridors and dungeons. The wall plaster is peeling in most places and remains of corroded iron hooks from where chains were once clamped can be seen. Lanterns hung from low ceilings looking like cages purpose-built to make even light struggle to do its work. An array of narrow chambers into which
I prayed and offered my soul to God. Then I took Susan’s hand and held it tight. She was crying. I told her it was good that we are together – if we are to die, we will die in each other’s arms. Of course, not that it stopped her from crying. Bob On my part, I was going over the photographs I took taking off from Dubai and imagining the best possible ways to crash land – and hoping the pilot share my plan. I almost always do, take
Vincent came running. “I was in that house cleaning their swimming pool,” he said pointing and with a broad smile I had gotten used to in Africa by now. “The rain and the wind had mucked it up,” he added, swole in damp clothes and wiping off drizzle from his face. The woollen cap was left on. This was my third visit to the Namibian capital, Windhoek, and I had passed through the ‘art island’ – as I referred to the area in the carrefour near a parking lot where
