dog's life

"Can I ask you something?" The security guard in Hussein's Clothing (and flashsticks and DVD players and blankets) waits politely for an answer.

"Yes?" I brace myself. Usually it's a request for work.

"What project do you work on?" I look at him blankly for a second.

"I mean, I know you work on a project somewhere. What is it?"

Oh. He has mistaken me for an NGO worker. No wonder: some locals think whites fall into two stereotyped categories: a) wicked white farmers (or to be pitied, depending on which side you're on) or b) rich NGO workers.

"I don't have a project," I say.

He waits. And then I say: "Actually, I'm writing a book." Which is true, though I do do other things.

"A storybook," I quickly add, just in case he thinks I'm writing about Zimbabwe. Not so long ago, that was a crime punishable not quite by death, but certainly by imprisonment.

"What's it called?" I'm stumped. I've written 180 pages for the latest version, but I still don't have a title. Or rather, the title changes by the week. I need to tell him something though, to bolster my story.

"A Dog's Life," I say, thinking fast. (There is a dog in it) The guard nods, satisfied.

I just hope I haven't jinxed my plot now.