Prostitute alley

Near my Harare apartment is a gathering place for local prostitutes. We greet each other as I walk by and inevitably they comment, in Shona, on my dress, the fact that I'm walking (a rare thing for a white lady in Harare), and wonder where I'm off to. I haven't let on that I'm beginning to understand them. They lead hard lives in an economy which is in the tank, a society where many husbands have ran off to South Africa to never return, and where there are many little ones to feed. Their living is imprinted on the bruises I see on their faces and arms, the sinewy muscles which speak of a life full of hard work, and a world weariness that I see in their eyes. Today I believe I witnessed three policemen force a prostitute into a car and then take off with her. From what one of my doctor colleagues later told me this is a common practice where local police and security forces "clear" an area of prostitutes and the only way for the prostitute(s) to free herself is through sexual services for the group of policemen.