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| Teach a man to fish. |
As we wade through the mild humidity past downtown – where faded British phone boxes stand barren, in an apt metaphor for the former colonial state – and into the community, many walls carry similar slogans.
They call for unity, for the elimination of gender-based and sexual violence, and decry crime with crudely scrawled guns and knives. The city has the highest murder rate of any country’s capital.
Interspersed are gang tags and RIPs to fallen comrades like ‘Beat Boy.’ Like billboards to poverty, the street is filled with the disassembled jigsaw puzzles of rusty vehicles. Many of the pieces are missing, never again to be found.
Back downtown, more memories of the slow fade of colonialism and a traffic officer, who barks at me about jaywalking at an uncertain intersection.
It’s supposed to be a $500 fine. But, I get a pass.
No nastiness today.
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