thief

Monday morning, 10 am. Three men are running down the road. One's shouting: "Mbava, mbava!" Thief, thief. Inside, Mai Agnes shakes her head. "It's because it's near Christmas." Robberies and break-ins surge towards Christmas. Five minutes pass. Then there's the sound of screaming. Through the bushes, we can see flashes of colour. People have gathered. I can see an arm being raised. Up, down. Instant justice isn't something you see being meted out too often in Zimbabwe's low-density suburbs. In the townships though, it's common. When you have a police force deployed to deal mainly with 'political' crimes -- read clampdown on the (now former) opposition Movement for Democratic Change (MDC) -- few bother to report petty crime. In fact, when a neighbour rang to call the police to report a burglary, the police said they'd have to come to fetch them from the police station. While the neighbour was out picking up an officer, the house was broken into again. Police report done, the neighbour had to once again leave the house to ferry the policeman back to the station. You've guessed it: the burglars struck for the third time. The sound's coming nearer the house. "I want to know how you broke into my house," shouts a guy in a white T-shirt and a cap. Another man has a stick. The burglar is being dragged past our house, slapped round the head and round the chest. He's tottering, hardly able to walk. His shirt's been ripped off. Housewives, maids and gardeners have gathered under the fig-tree. "It's like sharia," mutters my husband. I see an armed security guard from the VIP who lives on the corner. "They're beating a thief. Shall I call the police?" I gabble. He laughs at me.