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Khadija Magardie

Elbow

The night they came, the old plywood he’d found at the Marlborough dumpsite and erected into a door complied with a crack as they kicked it down.

The rusted twist of wire he’d threaded through the doorframe pole as a lock betrayed him. With a clang it snapped and gave way.

As they moved about the shack, the frame of sheet iron clattered into the ochre dust, offering no resistance. The treacherous walls that had once sheltered him gave him up.

When they came for Thomas Moyo, there was nowhere he could hide.

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If you lifted his shirtsleeve and exposed his bony forearm, there was no tell-tale circular scar that the young men of his generation are supposed to have since babyhood. A badge of belonging in this great city — testifying that the subject had been weighed and given shots at the government clinic.