The African Condition

Two men sit in a small room constructed from corrugated iron.

The room, if we can call it that, resembles a crime scene after the fact. A thick tiny, tattered mattress lies on the earth covered floor that is also host to four chunks of shredded dog blankets, three items of overused, unwashed, clothing, two crumpled prescriptions for insomnia, and a single discarded white bottle lying directly in the middle of the two men.

The first man sits awkwardly on what’s left of the mattress. His hands tightly wrapped around the back of his neck in a state of distress. He is 27 years old, but years of drinking and malnutrition have made him seem much older. Although his skin tone is a warm coffee color, poor hygiene and days of aimless wondering through the dusty excuses for roads, that run through his town have turned him the shade of wet earth. Keeping his eyes firmly locked on second man his frail long fingers scan the floor next to the mattress until they lock onto a yellow tin cup, half-filled with warm black tea. He slowly raises the cup to the thick cracked lips, that play the starring role on his gaunt face. After a long drain he places the, now empty, cup back on the floor with a loud ting that only seems to amplify the silence.

His breath is haggard, eyes wide, alert and teary. His obvious state of fear has no effect on the second man who casually leans against a cold grey surface that serves as one of the four walls. He wants to beg. He knows it won’t help, so he just sits there, and stares.

The second man stares back. His manner is unassuming , his face expressionless. His eyes never leaving the face of the first man.

Neither move, neither speak, both stare.