oxbridge

"Auntie, what do I have to do to go to Oxford?" A asks.

He appeared in the kitchen a little while earlier, a rucksack full of books in his hands. We sit at the table, green bananas in a bowl in front of us. He declines tea. I know there is something he wants to ask me.

I will have to wait to find out.

So I ask first after his mother, his sister, his grandmother. He asks after my baby, my son, my husband.

I ask how his lessons are going, at the private academy next door to his grandmother's that offers a better -- very slightly better -- education than the strike-plagued government boys high school.

He tells me about his old school in Matero, the township in Lusaka where he lived for five years with his parents. "I always wanted to come home, Auntie," he says. "They were so rough there."

(Later I will look up Matero on Google as I try to picture him there: "a section of populated place in Lusaka", travelingluck.com tells me. Barclays bank has a branch there. There's a football team called the Matero Tigers. Greataupair.com tells me to find "all Housekeepers available near Matero, Lusaka" and then it tells me to find "all Senior Caregivers available near Matero, Lusaka. Redemption Shalom Church is somewhere there: 'Peter' has a strong heart for evangelism and community development, apparently. A crime wave is haunting residents after the murder of a female student, says the Lusaka Times two days ago).

"I took up martial arts," A tells me. "I loved it so much." I wait.

"Auntie, if I get 25 points at A-level, do you think I can go to Oxford?"

I take a deep breath.