Missed like stable currency in Harare

Coming from Nepal, you hardly ever get to crack third-world-messed-up country jokes at anyone’s expense except your own, but Brendan is from Zimbabwe which has made our flat a gold mine for “your country” calls. Living with him is a bit like having an older brother. I’ve neatly evaded most things grown-ups do, like having a job with regular working hours or furniture that’s not filled with polystyrene beans. Instead, I’ve spent three quarters of a year routinely sitting on Brendan’s couches, sneaking his beers, and waiting for him to finish work so we could sit out on our deck and people watch or schedule cups of tea around cartoons on Thursday evenings. I also get to laugh at him for constantly being on the hunt for a lighter while he mocks me for changing my shoes and jewellery three times an hour.

He’s jumping on a plane to go take Europe by storm, the first in a series of upcoming goodbyes. It’s sad, but in the best kind of way.

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