The shirt was pinkish-purple. Bright. Something a too-eager girlfriend might have bought for her man on Valentine's Day. Expensive possibly, but not a shirt my father would ever consent to wear.
He didn't have a tie. I'm pretty certain the shirt was untucked, hanging over a pair of black trousers.
Purple Shirt was clearly in charge of the beatings.
Yards from my car window, he swung his black baton at members of the Zimbabwe Congress of Trade Unions (ZCTU). They were protesting cash withdrawal limits of just 500,000 dollars (20p).
A woman in a black leather jacket with a braided ponytail ran across the road to the truck and tried to grab hold of a male protester already sitting meekly inside, guarded by blue-uniformed riot police.
Purple Shirt turned on her, sending her sprawling onto the pavement.
Did his girlfriend watch him put that shirt on this morning?
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