how not to do your job

"He says he's got me an interview with the Mozambique opposition leader." He looks at me panic-stricken. "Alfonso Dhlakama, do you think?" I say. "Don't know." Help. It's 7 o'clock at night, we were due at a secret MDC gathering five minutes ago (we only found out about it in the last half hour), we don't really need an interview with a Mozambican politician but we do need to stay on the right side of our contacts. Who might be offended if we brush away our chance to interview a Big Man..."Google it," I say, shovelling scrambled egg down the infant's throat. He'll have to come with us: we have no babysitter tonight. So we google, in between locking the house, turfing a tidal wave of cats out, tying the laces on a pair of holey trainers ("Why can't I wear my flip-flops?") etc, etc. It turns out there is not one Mozambican opposition leader but two, the second is the mayor of Beira, and -- wouldn't you believe it -- he's just survived an assassination attempt. Oh, and there are elections next month. ("I could have told you that," says a friend the next day. "They're painting all the government buildings in Chimoio.") We formulate questions in the car, bumping over potholes: If it's Dhlakama, ask this and if it's Simango, well, at least you can ask about the assassination. We tumble into the dark and cold of a winter's garden. My son heads for the Cokes, thoughtfully provided at ground level. Simango is in the red baseball cap. And yes, he does want an interview...