They look like those stress-relieving balls, the rubbery ones that come with spikes that you're supposed to squeeze. These ones though are green and edible. I've never seen them before.
"Here," Mai Agnes takes a potato peeler. She cuts off the studs.
"Do you want to try some, Mum?" I take a bite. It tastes like cucumber, only sweeter. Much better than the Oxford cucumbers you get in the supermarket sometimes. Those ones are invariably sour at the ends.
"They're gakas," he says happily. "Mai Agnes grows them in her garden." He finishes both, puts down his plate.
"Maita shumba," he says, clapping his hands. Not tatenda or masvita or tinotenda or any of the other variations on thankyou in Shona that I've diligently learnt.
At five, my son is more of a local than I'll ever be.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Sunday, April 19, 2009
musical chairs
The only room in the house with good cellphone reception is the bathroom. This means it has to double up as a 'phone interview room. There are several consequences:
- the loo itself has a wooden flap, making it ideal for a desk. This means that if you want to use the loo for other purposes, you'll have to move a file or two off the top. Desk chair is the side of the bath. A bit precarious, but that's Zimbabwe for you.
- you won't just find loo-roll next to the loo, you'll find a cardboard list of 'phone contacts.
- loo interviews are all very well when it's one of you doing the 'phoning. Sometimes though, people 'phone you. This means that you may be happily minding your own business when somebody else bursts in, waving a cell-phone. And, of course, commercial activity has to take priority...
- the loo itself has a wooden flap, making it ideal for a desk. This means that if you want to use the loo for other purposes, you'll have to move a file or two off the top. Desk chair is the side of the bath. A bit precarious, but that's Zimbabwe for you.
- you won't just find loo-roll next to the loo, you'll find a cardboard list of 'phone contacts.
- loo interviews are all very well when it's one of you doing the 'phoning. Sometimes though, people 'phone you. This means that you may be happily minding your own business when somebody else bursts in, waving a cell-phone. And, of course, commercial activity has to take priority...
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
invasion
"Excuse me," I scream. "What do you think you are doing?"
It sounds so exotic: monkeys in my mango trees. Actually it drives me insane. They get braver by the day, now the semi-Rottweiler is dead. Breakfast-time, they scamper metres away from us to pinch the bananas ripening in the lean-to.
We wave our arms and shout. They bounce on their hind-legs, taunting us. "They've got blue bottoms," my five-year old giggles. Not quite bottoms, but I'll leave it at that.
Two nights ago, I lay awake seething. Rival troops were conducting a turf war by the light of the full moon between the mango and the avocado trees. In desperation, we resorted to a Valium tablet, carefully conserved since my in-laws' last trip camping in the bush near western Chitaki (they down a pill each per night so they're not woken by the lions).
I'll blame it on the lack of sleep. But when I saw them in the loquats the next morning I caught myself shouting like a prim English farmer's wife powerless before the war vets come to take over her homestead.
It sounds so exotic: monkeys in my mango trees. Actually it drives me insane. They get braver by the day, now the semi-Rottweiler is dead. Breakfast-time, they scamper metres away from us to pinch the bananas ripening in the lean-to.
We wave our arms and shout. They bounce on their hind-legs, taunting us. "They've got blue bottoms," my five-year old giggles. Not quite bottoms, but I'll leave it at that.
Two nights ago, I lay awake seething. Rival troops were conducting a turf war by the light of the full moon between the mango and the avocado trees. In desperation, we resorted to a Valium tablet, carefully conserved since my in-laws' last trip camping in the bush near western Chitaki (they down a pill each per night so they're not woken by the lions).
I'll blame it on the lack of sleep. But when I saw them in the loquats the next morning I caught myself shouting like a prim English farmer's wife powerless before the war vets come to take over her homestead.
Dove soap
The leather chair has such a large hole in the middle that I'm momentarily foxed, wondering if it's one of those ominously-named delivery chairs that I've heard of but never actually seen.
But no: it's just an old broken chair the nurse is perched on, in the middle of the childrens' ward. The ward is shabby, but light and clean. There are hand-painted guinea fowl mobiles floating over each bed near to felt-tipped green apples (or are they hearts?) with the message: Get Well Soon.
"I've brought you something," I tell a nurse. I'm waiting to interview a senior consultant. I've learnt it's often best not to arrive empty-handed in these cases.
I hold out my package: seven or eight individually-wrapped Dove soaps, some Dove deodorant (Black Dress Friendly, apparently it's a new line) and some toothpaste. A family friend has been sending these packages for seven years. His Dove soap has gone to childrens' homes, MDC officials' wives ("She'll use it at the church camp this weekend. None of her friends will have nice soap like this," the official in question told us happily as we skulked round a deserted building in the east of the country), victims of the Murambatsvina slum clearances, a would-be hairdresser in Mabvuku, Mrs Dube-who-gives-me-mealies and, and...
An older nurse appears. "I am the sister," she announces. "These are nice. Are they for me or for these girls?" Until January, nurses were being paid the equivalent of 50 US cents a month. "You must decide," I say, embarrassed by my heels and a tan leather Longchamp bag that's at least 10 years old but still looks expensive.
A chair appears, as if by magic. "Sit, sit while you wait," the nurses say, smiling. I do -- and the seat is solid.
But no: it's just an old broken chair the nurse is perched on, in the middle of the childrens' ward. The ward is shabby, but light and clean. There are hand-painted guinea fowl mobiles floating over each bed near to felt-tipped green apples (or are they hearts?) with the message: Get Well Soon.
"I've brought you something," I tell a nurse. I'm waiting to interview a senior consultant. I've learnt it's often best not to arrive empty-handed in these cases.
I hold out my package: seven or eight individually-wrapped Dove soaps, some Dove deodorant (Black Dress Friendly, apparently it's a new line) and some toothpaste. A family friend has been sending these packages for seven years. His Dove soap has gone to childrens' homes, MDC officials' wives ("She'll use it at the church camp this weekend. None of her friends will have nice soap like this," the official in question told us happily as we skulked round a deserted building in the east of the country), victims of the Murambatsvina slum clearances, a would-be hairdresser in Mabvuku, Mrs Dube-who-gives-me-mealies and, and...
An older nurse appears. "I am the sister," she announces. "These are nice. Are they for me or for these girls?" Until January, nurses were being paid the equivalent of 50 US cents a month. "You must decide," I say, embarrassed by my heels and a tan leather Longchamp bag that's at least 10 years old but still looks expensive.
A chair appears, as if by magic. "Sit, sit while you wait," the nurses say, smiling. I do -- and the seat is solid.
Friday, April 10, 2009
fresh produce
"Let me see your ring." The man behind the onions seizes my hand. I'm choosing large potatoes in TM supermarket. (800 US 'phone bill for the month = jacket potatoes and baked beans several nights running, plus cheese if you're very lucky).
"How many carats is it?" he asks. I've no idea. It was my mother-in-law's ring.
"I'm asking because I can get you a diamond like that," the teller says.
Oh. I thought the days of the Chiadzwa diamond rush were over. Mai D. told me Sunday the makorokoza (digger) who was renting her cottage had gone for good (without paying the rent, of course).
"This diamond is not from Marange," I say defensively. "It's an old ring."
"It's one carat," he says. "I know all about diamonds. Yours is from Sierra Leone."
"How many carats is it?" he asks. I've no idea. It was my mother-in-law's ring.
"I'm asking because I can get you a diamond like that," the teller says.
Oh. I thought the days of the Chiadzwa diamond rush were over. Mai D. told me Sunday the makorokoza (digger) who was renting her cottage had gone for good (without paying the rent, of course).
"This diamond is not from Marange," I say defensively. "It's an old ring."
"It's one carat," he says. "I know all about diamonds. Yours is from Sierra Leone."
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
storytime
Polite starts first. She stretches out a tentative hand to his head and strokes the long bits of hair near his ears.
Igno is fascinated. Her hand reaches out too. She pulls, just a little bit. He swats her hand away as if it's a fly. He's trying to listen to a complicated story about a hippo and an elephant caught in a trap.
Stroke, stroke...
From the other side of the room, I watch, waiting for the inevitable explosion. Clustered round the teacher are eight small black heads and one white one. Sounds simple, but it's not. I've been here long enough to know that the eight black kids won't all be Shona. For starters, Fadzie has some Mozambican blood in her, Kimberley's grandmother is Ndebele and Baizel has some sort of connection with the US. My own child has a British passport but a Zimbabwean birth certificate. One of the names on it is Shona.
Polite can't stop herself. She runs her fingers along his hairline. Hippos are old hat to her: yellow hair is much more interesting.
I wonder if he will remember these things?
Igno is fascinated. Her hand reaches out too. She pulls, just a little bit. He swats her hand away as if it's a fly. He's trying to listen to a complicated story about a hippo and an elephant caught in a trap.
Stroke, stroke...
From the other side of the room, I watch, waiting for the inevitable explosion. Clustered round the teacher are eight small black heads and one white one. Sounds simple, but it's not. I've been here long enough to know that the eight black kids won't all be Shona. For starters, Fadzie has some Mozambican blood in her, Kimberley's grandmother is Ndebele and Baizel has some sort of connection with the US. My own child has a British passport but a Zimbabwean birth certificate. One of the names on it is Shona.
Polite can't stop herself. She runs her fingers along his hairline. Hippos are old hat to her: yellow hair is much more interesting.
I wonder if he will remember these things?
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