JACK ZIMBA, Lusaka
TUESDAY, February 12
IT IS 13:33 hours, and I only have seven minutes to get to the train station and catch my train to Zambia. If I miss it, I will have to wait until Friday to get on the next one.
So I rush out of a Western Union office in Kariakoo, a bustling market place in the middle of Dar es Salaam, Tanzania, clutching a small wad of shillings and jump on the nearest motorbike I find. I do not have to explain to the driver my urgency; I guess it’s written all over me.
We dash across the city, weaving through heavy lunchtime traffic, and squeezing between lorries and buses. We run through a red traffic light without a care (the motorbikes don’t obey the traffic lights, anyway).