Runners

At sunset, I run under high walls decorated in razor wire, past The Storm Is Over bar and restaurant, and the owners of the artist stalls across from the Cape Hotel knelt in prayer, facing Mecca. The last of the sun dances across the zinc rooftops of the slums along Benson Street. Two runners jump and stretch, preparing to take the Benson Street hill. They sprint upward, sucking down the smoke of coal fires and motorcycle exhaust, till reaching the Masonic temple. Into the blurry night runners move up Tubman Boulevard, their shadows projected by the beam of a motorcycle. Despite the darkness and the dustiness, the lack of pathways or even sidewalks, little green space and extreme humidity, Monrovia is a city of runners. It’s free, it’s exercise, it’s a release from the maddening traffic and the high cost of living, potholed streets and petty corruption, loud ever-present dance music and the vendors hawking used clothes and cold water. But a marathon? Are there long-distance runners jogging along the crazy patterned streets behind the main road and its lonely sequence of street lights?