leaving

"I've been meaning to call you," S. says.

I nearly walked past my pharmacist-friend, hurrying along this busy street on my morning errands. I have plastic bags filled with bread, milk and -- unusually -- a bottle of wine. It's a gift, meant for our host tomorrow night. I know from experience that Shona women (the respectable, older kind) do not approve of women drinking.

I resist an urge to make sure the cork isn't poking out (It is).

"We're leaving," she says.

When?

"This weekend. The youngest has been ill. I was in Harare all week with him last week. He's got asthma. It was terrible, terrible. And S- said: 'You have to move here.'"

It makes sense. S-, my friend's husband, has been in Chitungwiza, Harare's dormitory town, for months now. He travels home at weekends but the bus trip -- if bus he takes -- is five, six hours, double the length of time it takes in a car. Term finishes next week: it's a good time to leave. Still, I'm genuinely sad.

"I'll call you when we're in town," I promise. I move to hug her. Is it me - or do I sense an imperceptible holding back? She and I often hug (Shona women do, a special style of bottom-sticking-out hug that means only your shoulders and the top part of your body touch) but not on a street, I realise.

Walking away, I think that I am the only murungu (white person) on the street. Although many people recognise me, they still watch. Maybe she felt the eyes.

"Look after your marriage," she whispers as a parting shot. "However bad it gets, look after it."