The early evening is laden with expectancy and the pavements are almost deserted.

And then, as the sky slowly darkens, dark silhouettes slowly start wandering along the city-centre sidewalks.

A bent elderly couple shuffle along the pavement on Tal Street, rummaging for something to eat in every orange waste bin attached to the streetlights.

Hoarse voices can be heard quietly arguing as they amble off into the dusk.

In Independence Avenue, a small boy, in ragged clothes, picks up bottles, quietly humming a tune and talking to himself as gleaming cars flash by.

As the darkness settles, and more shadows shift across the sidewalks, the aromas from a steakhouse and a fried chicken outlet, right next to each other, become more pronounced.

The tinkling of glass and cutlery drifts across the intersection of Buelow Street and Independence Avenue as cruising taxis flash their lights at dark shapes strolling beneath the dim streetlights.

At Ausspannplatz, homeless old men have retired for the night from park benches to crusty blankets under trees and bridges while homeless younger men, and women, discuss where to 'zula' for the next 'dop'.

On Stuebel Street, behind a mid-town shopping centre, 'ladies of the night' patrol a stretch of sidewalk almost untouched by light.

An expensive German car cruises by and one of the women, in a tight-fitting sundress and hands on hips, sashays to the edge of the curb.

The women stare indifferently as catcalls and whistling burst loudly from the dark interior of a taxi.

It's after nine and on Tal Street a patron of a hidden bar in an old brewery complex, drunkenly steps into the street and spreads his arms wide and pronounces to the night and car guards: "Viva white people ...

We white people .....slur mumble slur."

And in the same complex, on the perimeter of the plush surroundings of a trendy night spot, a blond tries to sell the dream of his dreams being realised to a homeless man.

The homeless man settles for a cigarette and steps outside to try and sell a popular street magazine to well-heeled patrons as they pull up in glistening off-road vehicles.

At 'OK' parking, groups of young people with foam cups in their hands hang around the open doors and boots of cars from which beat music pulses into the darkness.

Meanwhile, on Tal Street, the homeless man finally gives up trying to sell his magazine and at a city centre service station runs into three other homeless young men on their way to the drainage pipe, which runs beneath a highway, that they call home.

The young men say they've zula-ed enough money for half a 'pil' and a couple of 'stoppe'.

As they walk through the streets of Windhoek North, passing small groups of young men loitering on corners or on dark curbs, security vehicles, with three digits displayed prominently on their doors, dive across intersections with screeching tyres and flashing lights.

At the entrance to the pipe they light a candle, break a beer bottle and stuff the 'pipe'.

The older man lights a cigarette and tunes the small cheap radio to the sounds of Lucky Dube singing 'Different colours, one people' as the three younger men light up and puff and drop off their stone seats with mucous flowing from their mouths.

One of them comes around and slurs, "It makes me feel satisfied", as the one next to him retches and throws up, bits of undigested food dribbling down his legs and over his shoes.

The night stinks of urine, alcohol, vomit and unwashed bodies.

Tomorrow the streets of Windhoek will be littered with used condoms and broken bottles.

* Frederico Links is a freelance journalist

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