I don't recognise the number that flashes up on my cellphone screen, not at first. It's 091 - 5, which means it's one of the new ones. (Econet, Zimbabwe's biggest mobile 'phone company, embarked on an expansion drive last year, pumping out 091 - 3 lines, followed by 091 - 4, then - 5 and now - 6. There's a snob-factor to having an ancient 091 - 2 number: it means you paid millions for your line or at the very least 40 US).
"Hey, howz bn yr wk so far?"
"Little C is fine." Then I realise who it is: Mai C, Yollanda's neighbour. Somehow she's seen the parcel: a plastic bag full of donated Dove soap, deodorant and toothpaste I hastily flung together on Sunday and handed to Yollanda.
"Saw e Dove roll-on u sent 4 Yollanda, was wondering if I cd hv 1. Am so into Dove prod. Thnx."
"That's what'll happen," says N grimly, a few hours later in the day. She's a local street-kid worker, a member of the ethnic Shona majority. "You can't take the stuff to the child yourself. People will think you have lots to spare."
Besides, she adds, it's important not to give goods in any quantity. "Just a small amount at a time, enough to last two days. Otherwise it will get sold."
She tells of doing her rounds in Sakubva township, handing out bags of donated mealie-meal and maize.
"They sell it," she says. "Sometimes I get to the end of the street and I go back to the first house to make a surprise visit and I find them already spooning it out into smaller containers."
"When I ask what they're doing, they say they want to buy bread."
She shrugs. Back to the Yollanda problem: "Best you give me what you want to give her, and I'll take it to the house."
"They won't bother me."
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
closing
"I just need a break from Zimbabwe," she says with a sigh.
She opened a restaurant in this eastern city nearly two years ago. It was in a beautiful old house: pine floors, teak furniture, a shaded verandah. She specialised in high-quality cuisine: exquisitely-served pancakes with maple syrup imported from Canada (she's Canadian), butternut soup with a hint of spice.
Her food was so good that the US ambassador reportedly dined there on a rare visit to the town. (Wonder what he made of the ZANU-PF headquarters just opposite: were they delivering truckloads of sugar the day of his stopover?)
"I'm closing at the end of the month," she says, casting a glance into my half-empty shopping basket. "I just couldn't break into the market."
Maybe there wasn't enough money in town, I suggest.
There are already two coffee-shops catering for the chattering classes. There's also the violently-red painted concrete Burger Bar and at least two Wimpies for customers wanting to watch the world go by over a Coke. ("Don't order any food here," Shingie whispered when we sat at the BB on a sunny Friday lunch-hour recently. "I got food-poisoning last time.")
"I couldn't break into the cliques," she sighs. "It's Small Town Syndrome. In Harare, there's a buzz. People are out all the time, spending money. Here - "
She shrugs, casts a glance at the wilted carrots and beetroot behind us.
"I learnt my lesson. I guess they'll detain me at Heathrow though, if I arrive on a one-way ticket?"
She opened a restaurant in this eastern city nearly two years ago. It was in a beautiful old house: pine floors, teak furniture, a shaded verandah. She specialised in high-quality cuisine: exquisitely-served pancakes with maple syrup imported from Canada (she's Canadian), butternut soup with a hint of spice.
Her food was so good that the US ambassador reportedly dined there on a rare visit to the town. (Wonder what he made of the ZANU-PF headquarters just opposite: were they delivering truckloads of sugar the day of his stopover?)
"I'm closing at the end of the month," she says, casting a glance into my half-empty shopping basket. "I just couldn't break into the market."
Maybe there wasn't enough money in town, I suggest.
There are already two coffee-shops catering for the chattering classes. There's also the violently-red painted concrete Burger Bar and at least two Wimpies for customers wanting to watch the world go by over a Coke. ("Don't order any food here," Shingie whispered when we sat at the BB on a sunny Friday lunch-hour recently. "I got food-poisoning last time.")
"I couldn't break into the cliques," she sighs. "It's Small Town Syndrome. In Harare, there's a buzz. People are out all the time, spending money. Here - "
She shrugs, casts a glance at the wilted carrots and beetroot behind us.
"I learnt my lesson. I guess they'll detain me at Heathrow though, if I arrive on a one-way ticket?"
mothers
The woman is well-drawn, for a 10-year old. A floaty purple dress, high heels, black hair. Yollanda lingers over the hair. She makes it curl up at the ends.
"Is that your mummy?"
The children have been asked to draw things that are special to them. Most of them have drawn family members and friends. There are cats and dogs (Foxy, Spicy and Spider, Ruvimbo’s dogs are called). Baisel has drawn a cellphone, another child a flat-screen TV.
I know very little about Yollanda’s mother, except that she’s not there very often. In the days of the diamond rush, she disappeared to the Marange fields. She reappears every so often with a bucket of maize, the neighbours say. And sells the cast-off clothes Yollanda’s been given.
"Best not to give the clothes and the bath-soap to her," says Mai Caroline. "Give it to N, who lives across the road."
The women wonder what to do about Yollanda. How can you report her to Social Welfare when the department is barely functioning, they say, when state orphanages (and even private ones) are struggling to feed the children in their care?
"If she runs away from a home, she’ll be a street child and that’s worse," says Mai D.
But Yollanda is fast turning into a problem child. She steals, the neighbours say. Teenage boys – friends of her half-brother Courage – hang round the house.
"Have you drawn your mummy, Yollanda?" I ask again.
She looks at me shyly. "No. It’s you."
"Is that your mummy?"
The children have been asked to draw things that are special to them. Most of them have drawn family members and friends. There are cats and dogs (Foxy, Spicy and Spider, Ruvimbo’s dogs are called). Baisel has drawn a cellphone, another child a flat-screen TV.
I know very little about Yollanda’s mother, except that she’s not there very often. In the days of the diamond rush, she disappeared to the Marange fields. She reappears every so often with a bucket of maize, the neighbours say. And sells the cast-off clothes Yollanda’s been given.
"Best not to give the clothes and the bath-soap to her," says Mai Caroline. "Give it to N, who lives across the road."
The women wonder what to do about Yollanda. How can you report her to Social Welfare when the department is barely functioning, they say, when state orphanages (and even private ones) are struggling to feed the children in their care?
"If she runs away from a home, she’ll be a street child and that’s worse," says Mai D.
But Yollanda is fast turning into a problem child. She steals, the neighbours say. Teenage boys – friends of her half-brother Courage – hang round the house.
"Have you drawn your mummy, Yollanda?" I ask again.
She looks at me shyly. "No. It’s you."
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