The blue smoke of paraffin. The din of scooters. Narrow shops with stepladders to reach their high-rise stock, coarse sacks outside filled with grains and beans. The spattered colonnade, greasy smoke from the charcoal grills, little food stalls with vividly dirty shutters. The smell of the ground drenched in motor oil outside a mechanic’s shop, wheels and fan belts dangling from the ceiling. Everywhere men hanging out. Some are slumped all day at a cafe table, sipping a bottle of Coca-Cola, stories of violence and passion blaring from the television. Some stare into space, their eyes emptied of all curiosity. They look perfectly prepared for death. I envy their sense of stylistic continuity. Staring blankly while their hearts beat, staring blankly when they stop beating. How agitated and self-concerned I seem by comparison. I must emulate their obedience. I am heading south until the will to live is baked out of me.