30-06-2016 - Lusaka - Zambia - The Hearts Filthy Lesson

Two weeks ago, I bought a novel, called What Belongs to You by Garth Greenwell. The book describes a love-hate relationship between two man, an expatriate professor, living in Sofia, Bulgaria and a male prostitute called Mikto, that becomes, during some periods of time the sex the prostitute provides at a price. I've never had the opportunity to read books about gay relationships - despite I watched before movies and TV series - and this was, a novelty life experience. When I started to read the book, I thought it was about the exposure of what a gay relationship is all about, when it turned to be a reveling re-visitation of what how we construct additions with other people that since the very beginning we fell it is not going to work and we continue to insist on it, for a multitude of reasons that can include the sense of set us free, confronting our own beliefs and conscience or completeness of something we never achieved or wanted to be (the self we imagine in or deep thinking, but are ashamed of assuming it in public).        

A couple of weeks after, I landed in Lusaka. Like of the most of the African countries, the inequality rate is large as the valley of death and teenagers want to live the the dream, like anyone else. They just want to have fun. But partying, have local luxury meals, drink fancy cocktails or live the dream of 0,1% of the affluent population, comes with burden. In order to alleviate it, it is a common practice male business man have access to university teenagers, on exchange for a deluxe meal and a tip to pay the taxi back to the dorm room.

One evening, I was having a team dinner and on my back there was a table with 4 people. Two males, in their late fifties and two girls, both in their early twenties, but with a face so frightened, they seemed to me, just girls. During the dinner, I has drinking sparkling water with high diuretic properties, that made be leave the table more often than I expected. At the same time I was heading to the toilet, the short itinerary provided me the opportunity to observe what was happening on the other table. Poor souls, the men where spiting upon that, they were not even talking with the girls. They here having an evolved business conversation. Poor souls, they knew what was just about to hit after the dinner was over. The girls, with the head down - I do not know if they were ashamed of the scene or for the fact they were felling just being a decorative object at the table. With their heads down, looking to each other, taking sips on Amarula, a South African kind of cream liqueur - like Baileys - they were not even feeling Queens for a night, like any other prostitute would probably sense and get payed for it. Like Mikto.

I am starting to believe, I was sent to this region to bleed.


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