Ibwe

Mapule Mohulatsi

Bree Street smokes with heat from the fires burning at every corner to ward off the oncoming winter. It has a narrow lane filled with people that have burnt-out skins crusading among rows of multi-coloured umbrellas that cover the fruit and vegetables. Bree Street, the theatre of voices that have been cultivated from childhoods spent clamouring in the ghetto streets: alto, bass, soprano, silence – voices as piercing as an untrained orchestra, jostling for attention, holding the mid-day air hostage.

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