diannetippingwoods

“Oh my god…did you see that?”. Before Rob’s words register we reverse. Emerging from my drowsy stupor I see the body lying there on the side of the road. It could be dead or asleep. I see that the white shirt is rising and falling. It is white like the pills scattered on the tarmac, sudden snowflakes in the hot sun. I feel cold as she lies there sweating. Read the rest of this entry »

There is one in every town, city and country. More than one; reproductions of reproductions, cars people, the urban ritual. It’s repeated hundreds of times a day, thousands of times. People drive in and out, paying brief tribute to our mechanized mobility. Like so many rituals, this one is commercial, performed perfunctorily. Money changes hands and the taken for granted flux of our lives is guaranteed. Read the rest of this entry »

Bulawayo: City of Kings. And Queens of the Night, of Pissed Nights, and of Pawns, waiting in queues, for meilie-meal, oil, salt, flour, fuel that nobody can afford; Bulawayo: City of Queues. We swoop in towards Joshua Nkomo Airport, and I look down on this unreal world; an obscure chessboard. The ground rises up in fertile green and brown patches. Gold grass glows alongside dust. Over a million people live in Bulawayo. As we skim the city, I see the people-pieces fill out, moving randomly. Whoever was playing lost interest a long time ago. Read the rest of this entry »