who wears the trousers?

"You mean, it's not really acceptable to wear trousers?" asks my friend, who's white and from Malawi (and wearing fitted jeans).

"No." The two Shona women choose their words carefully. "It wasn't. You know, there are some churches you can't go to if you're wearing trousers."

"One time, I went to that UBC (United Baptist Church)," says Mai D. "It was cold, and I was wearing tracksuit bottoms under my skirt. They came to me after the service: "Amai, we do not like you to wear trousers."

I remember -- it's years since I thought about this -- a meeting I went to in Harare. Women of the Noughties, or something like that. It must have been 2004 or 5. I was the only white invited. The glamourous guest speaker was well-known, highly successful and married to a top tourism official. She kindly took time to explain zambias to me. Zambias are the wraparound skirts you see women wearing traditionally, often over trousers or a short skirt.

"I might be a businesswoman but when my inlaws come, I must put on my zambia," she said.

My white friend remembers growing up in Malawi under Kamuzu Banda, who banned trousers and short skirts. She recalls having to change quickly after tennis: the short wrapround tennis skirts weren't acceptable in public.

"Things are changing now," says Mai D. "You know, that young son of mine, he told his father and I: 'I will not marry a girl who wears dresses.' "

hallucinating

It's some kind of outdoor function. I think I can see a marquee. I know I have heels on: I feel unsteady as I walk. He -- the Father of the Nation, His Excellency -- is guest of honour.

We're in a crowd. Somehow my child gets pushed to the front and, too far away for me to do anything about it, he's being introduced. "What's your name?" I manage to lipread. I see my boy answering in his clear voice. H.E is smiling paternally. G is in florals next to him. She bends down to catch my son's words.

I manage to push my way -- politely -- through the crowd. H. E and The First Lady are chatting happily. Then I realise G. is talking in Italian.

I ask her (since I'm right next to her and it would be impolite not to): "Dov'e ha (slight hesitation: do I use the formal Lei rather than tu and if I do, what's the verb ending? ) imparato l'italiano?" Where did you learn Italian?

"You speak it too?" G is delighted. She turns her back on the rest of the crowd. We walk off together chatting, our heels sinking into the grass in time with each other. She's cool, I think. I was so wrong about her. Why, I could actually be friends with this woman.

"Oh," she says nonchalantly. "I learnt it when I was cleaning toilets in --" I don't catch the name of the Italian city but I'm too embarrassed to ask, especially as I have to confess I learnt my Italian at university. Poor G, I think. I'm being sincere. She only got a chance to go to secretarial college. Parents didn't send her to university. So typical of Zimbabwean parents' attitudes to girls a few years back, whether they were black or white.

"What does your husband do?" G asks. In a friendly manner. I gulp. "Just...you know, bits of NGO work," I say. One shouldn't lie to a New Best Friend. G doesn't seem 'phased. I can't really ask her what her husband does. We chat a bit more. Croissants are handed round.

And then I wake up. It's Saturday morning. A cold cup of Tanganda tea sits by the bed. The power's on. Nothing has changed.

It was a good dream, while it lasted.

greenshirts

"There are nine roadblocks on the way to Harare," my mother-in-law warns. "Drive slowly."

The police are on a fund-raising spree, it seems. Spot fines for speeding (and a host of other infractions). That would be good if it curbed Zimbabwe's road chaos. Road accidents are -- state media says -- the second main cause of death here.

We drive carefully, marvelling at the number of flashy, non-number plated cars happily steaming past us. If we're going at just under 120 km per hour -- the legal limit -- what speed must they be going at? There are suspicions (who knows whether they're justified?) that the drivers being targeted are mainly from one racial group.

We watch for police round every bend, every kopje, our hearts leaping every time we see a flash of green. The police wear luminous lime green tank-tops. And then we realise that that particular shade of green is obviously this year's hot colour. Women are wearing it: stretchy T-shirts, lime-green jumpers. Men sport tailored lime-green shirts (possibly Van Heusen, but probably Mbare flea market).

The thing is, you don't know for sure the lime green-wearers are not police until you get near them.

The journey takes us half an hour longer than normal.