chicken

"I am going to do something very big for you," she says, disappearing behind the sofa. There is no power at Mai D's house. There was none at ours yesterday. Her arthritis is worse.

"There." She comes back clutching something loosely-covered in a plastic bag. It is fat and disturbingly fleshy. A frozen baby?

"A chicken," she says triumphantly. "I told you." I am embarrassed. My gift of bread and jam cannot match a chicken, not in these harsh times. But she insists.

"How?" I say. She begged Mai C for 2 US this morning to buy Brufen -- the local equivalent of Ibuprofen -- for the pain. "It's from that boy. He 'phoned a lady in Damgamvura (township), told her to bring his mother six chickens."

"But you mustn't tell the others. That time I bring bananas for your boy, Mai Simba saw. She said: "Are you selling those bananas?" She shakes her head. "They will all want some."

I nod dutifully. "Sometimes those boys are good," she says proudly. "They will care for their mother. But if those muroora (daughter-in-laws) get involved, I have to zip my mouth."