we make a plan

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."