we make a plan

I don't recognise the number that flashes up on my cellphone screen, not at first. It's 091 - 5, which means it's one of the new ones. (Econet, Zimbabwe's biggest mobile 'phone company, embarked on an expansion drive last year, pumping out 091 - 3 lines, followed by 091 - 4, then - 5 and now - 6. There's a snob-factor to having an ancient 091 - 2 number: it means you paid millions for your line or at the very least 40 US).

"Hey, howz bn yr wk so far?"

"Little C is fine." Then I realise who it is: Mai C, Yollanda's neighbour. Somehow she's seen the parcel: a plastic bag full of donated Dove soap, deodorant and toothpaste I hastily flung together on Sunday and handed to Yollanda.

"Saw e Dove roll-on u sent 4 Yollanda, was wondering if I cd hv 1. Am so into Dove prod. Thnx."

"That's what'll happen," says N grimly, a few hours later in the day. She's a local street-kid worker, a member of the ethnic Shona majority. "You can't take the stuff to the child yourself. People will think you have lots to spare."

Besides, she adds, it's important not to give goods in any quantity. "Just a small amount at a time, enough to last two days. Otherwise it will get sold."

She tells of doing her rounds in Sakubva township, handing out bags of donated mealie-meal and maize.

"They sell it," she says. "Sometimes I get to the end of the street and I go back to the first house to make a surprise visit and I find them already spooning it out into smaller containers."

"When I ask what they're doing, they say they want to buy bread."

She shrugs. Back to the Yollanda problem: "Best you give me what you want to give her, and I'll take it to the house."

"They won't bother me."

Dove soap

The leather chair has such a large hole in the middle that I'm momentarily foxed, wondering if it's one of those ominously-named delivery chairs that I've heard of but never actually seen.

But no: it's just an old broken chair the nurse is perched on, in the middle of the childrens' ward. The ward is shabby, but light and clean. There are hand-painted guinea fowl mobiles floating over each bed near to felt-tipped green apples (or are they hearts?) with the message: Get Well Soon.

"I've brought you something," I tell a nurse. I'm waiting to interview a senior consultant. I've learnt it's often best not to arrive empty-handed in these cases.

I hold out my package: seven or eight individually-wrapped Dove soaps, some Dove deodorant (Black Dress Friendly, apparently it's a new line) and some toothpaste. A family friend has been sending these packages for seven years. His Dove soap has gone to childrens' homes, MDC officials' wives ("She'll use it at the church camp this weekend. None of her friends will have nice soap like this," the official in question told us happily as we skulked round a deserted building in the east of the country), victims of the Murambatsvina slum clearances, a would-be hairdresser in Mabvuku, Mrs Dube-who-gives-me-mealies and, and...

An older nurse appears. "I am the sister," she announces. "These are nice. Are they for me or for these girls?" Until January, nurses were being paid the equivalent of 50 US cents a month. "You must decide," I say, embarrassed by my heels and a tan leather Longchamp bag that's at least 10 years old but still looks expensive.

A chair appears, as if by magic. "Sit, sit while you wait," the nurses say, smiling. I do -- and the seat is solid.