Today there are fewer white people on the mission. They are called expatriates, not missionaries, and can be seen living in unpainted brick houses. But they are deified in the same way as the missionaries were because they are white so that their coming is still an honour. J am told that whether you are called an expatriate ora missionary depends on how and by whom you were recruited. Although the distinction was told to me by a reliable source, it does not stick in my mind since I have not observed it myself in my dealings with these people. I often ask myself why they come, giving up the comforts and security of their more advanced homes. Which brings us back to matters of brotherly love, contribution and lightening of diverse darknesses.

nversation I had with my mother about the toilet happened four or five days after we arrived. On the day we arrived, when the car rolled to a stop under the shade of the mango trees, we were greeted by depressing silence. When people did come to welcome us it was only Netsai and Rambanai, more naked than dressed in their tattered frocks, their legs and their arms and even their hair and faces grey with shena. Dirty and dusty, they embraced us, wrapping their arms around Babamukuru first and then Maiguru, Nyasha, myself and lastly Anna: ‘You have come, Babamukuru. You have come, Maiguru. You have come, Sisi Nyasha,’ and so on until we had all been ritually embraced.

t was embarrassing the way Lucia wouldn't give up on Maiguru. Maiguru, who thought that Lucia ought to suffer the consequences of her fecund appetites, perhaps felt sorry for her too, but preferred all the same not to become involved in matters of the flesh or the earth, although she did not like this preference to be too obvious since it meant she was setting herself above the rest of us. Now, with Lucia insisting that Maiguru take sides, come out in the open, we were in a very delicate situation.

Maiguru grew very distant. “This matter is not my concern,’ she shrugged, carelessly turning down the corners of her mouth. ‘Am I of their totem? I am not. I was taken. Let them sort out their own problems, and as for those who want to get involved, well, that’s up to them. I don’t want to intrude into the affairs of my husband’s family. I shall just keep quiet and go to bed.’

As far as I was concerned, people only made clay pots when they were very young and playing at being grown up, or when they were grown up because they had to have pots for storing water and mahewu and the like. But we used two- and five-gallon drums for water these days and I had never seen anybody make a proper dari although we had several in the house. So those pots were definitely Nyasha’s craze, not mine, and while she was very concerned about making sure that they did not crack, while she was meticulous in scratching her designs, they did not matter much one way or the other to me, serving only to pass the tim