Stuck in traffic at the ideological intersection of Avenidas Karl Marx and Ho Chi Minh, I'm trying to follow Mozambique's vague rightward turn into its uncertain future. Post-colonial success story, or just another African playground to the world.
With a cool breeze rustling the palm trees overhead, I finish the last of my calamari and my second Dos M beer. At the next table, a chubby Portuguese expat picks at his teeth and paws a schoolgirl companion, gripping her chin without affection, then rustling her hair like a dog's. I can almost hear her teeth gritting, but she betrays nothing and goes back to idly typing a text message on her cellphone.
