Hanging on the living room wall in A's house, there's a framed cross-stitch picture in white and pink. "Home is where the heart is." The house is scrupulously clean, but there's no sign of the sideboard filled with trinkets - glasses, ornaments -- that used to have pride of place as you walked in. Sold?
There's tea, served in the thick Willsgrove pottery you'll find in every Zimbabwean home, every hotel, every cafe. It's then that I make my faux pas, when A offers a second cup and I nod quickly, without thinking.
She's used up the last of her powdered milk to fill the tiny jug that splashed the bottom of our four cups, first time round. There is no more milk, no sugar and there will not be when we leave the house. Embarrassed, A pours out black tea.
These days in Zimbabwe, it's bad manners to ask for a second cup.
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