In 2010, Mukthar walked through the doors of Chungking Mansions hoping to turn his life around. He had just arrived in Hong Kong from Somalia, a refugee and entrepreneur, with $US6000 in his pocket and most of his life ahead of him. Few places would give a visa to a Somali, but Hong Kong was more open to African and Asian immigrants. And for those like Mukthar, who made it this far and whose cash would not last long, there was only one place to go: the complex of weathered high-rise buildings in the heart of one of the most glamorous areas of the city.

Chungking Mansions, a dense and decrepit warren of flophouses and eateries, has the air of a busy bus station. On the street outside, restaurant touts jostle for attention. Through the entrance, beneath the name printed in dull gold English and Chinese script, the ground floor resembles a bazaar. The aisles are narrow, the ceilings low, the cables and pipes visible. Where it isn’t dark, the light is too bright, and fans the size of giant satellite dishes blow a gale in corners where young men listlessly gather. Trays of samosas languish under spotlights; tins of evaporated milk teeter; pots of curry and stew bubble. There are cardboard boxes in various states of being unwrapped.

Financial Times