The traders on Livingstone Bridge at the border with Zambia were visibly happy in the noonday sun. In their hands were thick bundles of Zimbabwean money, to be sold as souvenirs to the tourists who came newly to Zimbabwe. Anyone who looked at such beautifully colored notes, with a long row of zeroes on it, could easily notice that something has gone terribly wrong in Zimbabwe.


At cafe “Princessa” the next day, the welcome scent of coffee hangs in the air, beckons to Obi’s tired legs to come take a rest for a short while. A metallic table reflects the rays of the sun, making Obi’s eyes shut themselves before he became a blind man. As he sat, he was surrounded by mountains of plastic and paper bags probably from people who had gone shopping but came down to “Princessa” to rest. They, like him are probably taking a break from spending money they should have kept for something more important, but what the heck, money was made to be spent.