The Last King of Scotland...in technicolor

My mobile wakes me up but the alarm is what keeps me from falling back to sleep. I've grown used to the radio voices on the morning show, pausing from the morning ablutions to chime along with the boop - boop - boooooo, it's 6 o'clock now, time for the morning news. Monday morning, I hear that Morgan Tsvangirai had been taken into police custody, along with a number of others after a political rally in Harare had been broken up, one man killed.

Shit, I thought. He's dead. I'm reminded of the fate of Steve Biko.

It's an odd feeling, knowing that in all probability someone is about to die, a nasty horrible death, for the sake of a principle, while I apply a facial moisturiser that probably cost more than one month's salary for the average worker in India. In the financial world, the motto is consumption is good, in fact eventually, it makes the world better all around.

Really? Really really?

But, I'm relieved to hear the man is alive, happy he isn't backing down from his agenda out of fear. History (or in my case, Hollywood) teaches us not to put too much faith in political opposition leaders in Africa. It all seems an enlightening, if not miserable, lesson in the concept of hope.