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He tried to scream, but the effort expelled the only breath still trapped within his cooling chest By Nhamo Muchagumisa The cloud of eternal gloom finally settled on Zvinake. The bruises on his face, elbows and knees had stopped burning. His chest was, however, still ablaze. Fire filled three quarters of it. The numbness that filled his head cleared his mind of every thought except that of Uncle Musiwazvo. Uncle Musiwazvo was dead. Zvinake was certain that he would not leave the thicket, in which he lay, on his feet. He had to be carried out of it and loaded into a police van, just as Uncle Musiwazvo had been packed into the police car two days before. He knew that by the time he would be discovered, it would be too late for him to experience the hospitality of a hospital ward. A hospital mortuary would be the right place. He had participated in a “mass” demonstration two days before.