neighbours

In a capital city of less than 2 million inhabitants, you're bound to bump into people. The then finance minister Herbert Murerwa used to shop at our local Bon Marche supermarket (gratifyingly, he didn't push trolleys-full of goods: judging from his basket, his tastes were moderate). Our son once played with the son of a top-ranking, very anti-white government official (at four or thereabouts, the child already had a black leather jacket). Before last year's elections, we came face-to-face with discredited Lands Minister Joseph Made plus entourage in Halfway House store, near the dried fruit.

The latest neighbour we've discovered is vitriolic pro-Mugabe geography teacher-turned-writer, C Zvayi. He left the state-run Herald newspaper last year to slip into neighbouring Botswana as a communications lecturer but was thrown out by the authorities. Zvayi was filmed back at his Avondale flat, angrily discussing his predicament (presumably the Zimbabwe government doesn't pay for propaganda in pulas). Which is how we realised we were neighbours.

Zvayi's block is a dank, creme-painted place under the shadow of thick trees, right next to the German Embassy (wonder if they know?). Last night there was washing hanging on the balcony. Looking at it, I was reminded of my grandmother's dreary council flat half a world away in Coalville, England.

Neighbours, but not friends.