luna park

Luna Park is Zimbabwe's travelling fair. In the midst of Zimbabwe's worst-ever economic crisis, it's still operating. The rides are exactly the same as they were in the 1970s, my husband confirms: the Joy-Ride, Vroom-Vroom, Boats, the Sky-Ride, Shells.

The Octopus is still operating, even though it lost a leg mid-ride some years ago, my mother-in-law says darkly.

There's even a rollercoaster, wending its way in the semi-darkness at the edge of Meikles Park. When my husband was eight, he was so terrified he made them stop the ride. His two brothers loved it, of course.

Teenagers and young black families throng the fairground this time round. The local Manica Post newspaper says even nightclubs are feeling the pinch: patrons prefer the fair. Streetkids beg for money for a ride. We have no Zimbabwe dollars. You cannot ask a four-year old to just stand and watch the merrygoround, I realise.

"Auntie!" It's Mai Sean (Sean's mother) in a T-shirt and tight jeans. We exchange news. Her father, a prominent charity worker, is back from a trip to Uganda. Her beauty studies are going well, how it's impossible to get cash from the bank: the little nothings that make up a conversation, knots in the net of community. Sean stands on tiptoe, clasping his arms around my legs.

"It's my birthday," he says. "I'm 5."

Mai Sean's brother slips off quietly to change our 2 US somewhere behind the ticket shack. I watch two small boys sharing a pack of pink and white marshmallows as the jet planes whirl and the fairy lights flash onto their faces. "Time to go home", I say at last.

For now, this is the home we have.