requests

The man hobbles up as I pay for the paper. He's probably from the rural areas, judging by the hat. He can barely speak English. "Please, one dollar," he says. "For sadza." And I, who am usually wary of all street requests, give in.

In town, the street kids follow.

My desperation mounts.

The girl who mans the town's only well-stocked (that's relative, of course) bookshop sees me park the car. Charity, her name is. She knows me well, always asks after my son. She runs after me in the street. She looks away as she tells me she needs 40 dollars ( "20 or 40") and why. Her father is in hospital. I know this to be true. He has diabetes and has recently had a leg amputated. Charity's mother goes to see him every day: she has to or else how will he be fed? But the transport -- from Sakubva high-density suburb to the Provincial Hospital -- costs a minimum of 30 US a month.

Charity is looking after her sister's child and needs school fees in 15 days. That's another 20 at least to find (and that's not counting incentives). She needs to pay the city council 30 dollars a month rates. Her father used to do this but he is not working at the moment, of course. The electricity bill is 20 dollars. I've lost count but the running total I see is already 100 US. She is paid precisely 100 US a month. A perfectly normal horrible salary in Zimbabwe.

"How often do you shop?" she asks me, seeing my basket.

"A little most days," I say. "I buy bread and vegetables."

She sighs.

"I shop once a month," she says. "For everything."

I feel -- as I feel so often here - powerless, frustrated. Where do you start? Where do you stop?

A sms message printed in the newspaper: "Morgan Tsvangirai has not delivered on his promises to workers."