the dead man wore red shoes. his body was located near the national stadium. the body was decayed and windswept. scoured. in a short time there would be little meat left on the bones. and friends of the deceased would find identification difficult but remember how he used to dance. what had happened to his clothes. all gone save for the shoes. and the shoes had been brand new. once. brand new. the lover of the deceased had not had sexual intercourse with anyone including the deceased for a very long time before the death had occurred. possibly a murder. so many months since the couple had actually fucked. there had been no doubt that the death was suspicious. statements from the police. they asked witnesses to come forward but no one did. it was a futile attempt at covering the real tracks. no one could ever come forward for they too would be found dead some where in the future if words were made public. if fingers were pointed. and it is true that pointing is easy. but the consequences. what is to be done but remember the dancing. the dancing and singing at the wake. and somebody scurried towards home and the space that was safe. safe. . . for all the world to run free no matter how poor a fit their shoes, no matter what colour. there is safety in the knowledge of friendship and a good send off no matter how many land mines occupy your neighbourhood.

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