They sit on a sack on the ground. All about them is the mill of traffic, on foot and in cars, walking and trundling past as the day waxes and then wanes. There are people who stop, and deposit coins in the tin bowls set before them. A clink, and then a walking off, the thankful prayer trailing them. The Sun burns their foreheads, and covers them with sweat. The conversation between them is a drawn-out thing, filled with intermittent pauses, filled with the sounds of the radio tuned in to the news.
- They have come into Libya. They go for the President.
- Is it America.
- America leads everyone else. But there are others.
A passerby, in shorts and sandals. A clink - a dalasi.
When the Sun sets they leave the place of begging.