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.
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