mazoe orange

"The nurse said to bring her Mazoe Orange," Mai A says. "I buy it. But in the rural areas, it is very expensive. Four dollars seventy. In OK it is three dollars."

She shakes her head. "But I buy it," she insists.

Months ago, I bumped into an acquaintance in Spar scanning the shelves for "red juice." Red juice (also made by Mazoe, among others) is a preservative-, sugar- and colourant-laden version of squash or cordial. There's probably not a berry of real fruit in it. "I'm getting it for my father," she told me proudly. "The nurse says he needs red juice for his blood."

I think about these prescriptions, bought so diligently by locals. Mai A disappeared to the clinic yesterday to visit her sister 'from 22' (I presume this means she's the housemaid at Number 22, Some Road). "She's bleeding from the nose," Mai A told me, face contorted at the fear of yet another family tragedy. "And she has a bad headache. People die from those headaches."

This morning she tells me the sister does not have malaria. We look at each other silently for a few seconds. "It's the cold," I say unconvincingly.

"Yes," she agrees. "That Mazoe was too expensive." And I finally understand: when there's nothing else to prescribe a patient, Mazoe squash becomes something for the relatives to cling to. The essence of hope, perhaps.

older than you look

This is to keep me humble.

Supermarket scene. Have dragged husband so we can do a whole-week shop for once, instead of me trawling the store every morning with my basket. The shop assistants - who know me well - watch quizzically as I take a big red trolley and he pushes.

I arrive late to the till after foraging for raisins. My husband is already unpacking. This is always the worst part. We shop in OK (Where Everyone's a Winner). Traditionally whites don't, preferring the more upmarket Spar or - at the very least -- TM. A shopping trolley total of 50 US raises eyebrows here and lots of silent studying from the rest of the till queue (and requests for us to pay for their tea-leaves/bread/sugar too). Even though we are far from the only shoppers in the store with a trolley.

The security guard smiles at me as I pack.

"Amai," he says. "Is that your boy? Your son?"

"Son?!" I manage to keep my voice down. "He's my husband."

Now what does that mean?