visit

11 o'clock, Sunday morning. There's loud hooting at the gate. I am expecting a woman to drop round with vouchers for a short trip we've planned. I run outside, squeeze through the gap and... it's a police car. Inside are three policemen in luminous vests.

They're aggressive. "Where's Mr B?" they say, naming a local store.

Not here. "Why don't you know? Aren't you a resident?" the officer in the back says.

I look him in the eye, something a good Shona woman (especially a young one) does not do.

"We've only had this house for two years," I say. Immediately I regret the words: the police are looking for anyone who's acquired wealth in the shape of houses and cars since the diamond rush started.

That was two and a half years ago.

"Let me go find a number," I say. I close the gate before they have a chance to stop me, rush inside, try to make a 'phone call, fail, grab the telephone directory and run outside to the car again.

"Is this guy Indian?" I ask.

"No, black," the officer in the driving seat says. I see he has a clipboard. The infamous list?

I page through the directory and find a number for the store, at least. Eventually the police drive off.

My hands are shaking when I go inside.