I’m uncomfortably full.
‘You’ve barely eaten,’ she says as I finish. Before I can refuse, she ladles more meat and gravy onto my plate, then adds enough sadza to mop up.
‘You must eat,’ she tells me, ‘you never know if there will be food tomorrow.’ She empties the serving bowl onto her plate.
I can’t keep up. Florence’s plate is clean again, save for one tiny piece of sadza.
‘You don’t seem to like our Zimbabwean food,’ she says. ‘Maybe we must cook you some potatoes.’
‘No, no, I love the food,’ I reply. ‘It’s just that I’m trying to watch my weight.’ I pat my stomach. It feels bigger than ever. ‘I’ve been drinking a lot of beer.’
‘We are proud to be stout in Zimbabwe,’ she says. ‘Let the English remain skinny like a village dog.’
I force down the rest of the food. Hope brings the hand-washing bowl. As I rub off the sadza residue I think about how to make a polite exit. I look forward to a relaxed walk home to digest those hillocks of sadza. I’ll return another day with a stack of cards and my tape recorder.
I’ve just said the initial parting words, ‘Well Florence …’, when the phone rings. At least someone can get through. Florence chats for a while, then puts her hand over the speaker.
‘My friend Rumbi is inviting us to a party tonight,’ she tells me.
I’m not sure if this is a date or just African hospitality. Either way, I can’t say no.
Florence puts down the phone and heads for the front door. ‘I’m coming now-now,’ she says.
A few moments later, she returns with an armload of white laundry and disappears into the bedroom.
On tv, the Prime Minister is speaking to a crowd in some rural area. The people clap and raise their fists in salute. A circle of very round women entertain him with a hip-shaking dance after his speech. He smiles at the appropriate moment.
Florence pops her head out from the hall that leads to the bedroom. ‘By the way,’ she says, ‘do you have your girlfriend waiting for you somewhere? We can collect her on the way.’
‘No, I’m free,’ I reply. ‘But I don’t want to be a gatecrasher.’
‘Don’t act like a white man, Mr Dabney. We don’t send out invitations to our parties. You’re at home now.’
I’m not really dressed for a party and I’m supposed to be doing research. How can I write objectively about people who feed me, give me beer and take me to parties? Maybe I’m overthinking.
A few minutes later, Florence comes back to the living room. She’s changed into a shining blue, floor-length, African-style dress that looks like silk, with a white crocheted pattern running down the front. A scarf of the same material as the dress covers her hair. She’s shed the silver bangles for ivory. Gold loops hang from her ears.
The room smells of carnations and Florence dominates it even more than before; majestic is the word that comes to mind. Being a little plump myself, I’m not usually attracted to large women. But this is Zimbabwe. A place to turn the past upside down.
When Florence isn’t looking, I reach down to dust off my scruffed-up brown shoes. I ask to use the bathroom. I wet my fingers in the sink and slap a little water on my hair, trying to pull some errant strands into place. At least I shaved in the morning. I moisten some toilet paper and attempt a more thorough cleaning of my shoes. As soon as the water dries, they’ll look just as scruffy as before.
I take one last peek in the mirror. Even with slicked-down hair and temporarily shined shoes, I’m feeling like the garbage man in uniform about to enter the Debutante Ball when Rumbi turns up to collect us.
Rumbi is a thin woman with gold-frame glasses. She’s an accountant. She drives her Volkswagen Golf like a newcomer to the roads. I sit alone in the back while ub40’s ‘Red Red Wine’ blasts from the cassette player. I have no idea who will be at the party and I’m showing up in the company of two black women. I guess it’s all part of reconciliation but it’s new territory for me. I’m more comfortable in the company of my books and 3×5 cards.
The owner of the six-bedroomed house in the suburb of Waterfalls at which we end up was known as Comrade Kundai during the war. ‘Kundai’ means ‘conquer’. In the post-1980 era he is Titus Mawere, Deputy Minister of Housing. The occasion is the first birthday of his son.
By the time we arrive and make our way through the phalanx of Peugeots, Benzes and Nissan Skylines parked in the street, the young boy is asleep. Birthday cakes and happy tunes have given way to tubs full of beer, chicken and goat on the barbeque, and high-volume music from around the world. Under a blue-and-white marquee, the sounds of Abba, The Commodores and The Gap Band blend with the tunes of local stars Thomas Mapfumo, Oliver Mtukudzi and Lovemore Majaivana. I sport the only unpolished shoes and collarless shirt in the gathering. The only other white person there wears a tan summer suit and leaves about half an hour after we arrive.
The dance floor used to be a shuffleboard court. Florence keeps dragging me along to be her partner. She laughs as I search for the beat of the music.
‘You dance like you’re wrestling an ox,’ she says. ‘Just relax.’ Her encouragement doesn’t help. She keeps seeing old friends just when I’m grasping the rhythm and leaves me to go and say hello. Each time she does this I receive another partner, usually a man.
At first I think this pairing off has sexual overtones, that Waterfalls is a major gay vein in the Zimbabwean lode. As the night moves on, my notion of coupling blurs. I dance alone, in groups, with whoever is nearby. I can’t tell what strings bind the people together here. Maybe I’m just too distracted by trying to keep my out-of-time clapping to a minimum.
During one of my forays to the metal tubs holding the beer, Mawere intercepts me. ‘I’m made to understand you’re a historian writing about our struggle,’ he says. I’m not sure if he is accusing me or welcoming my efforts.
‘Yes, Mr Mawere,’ I reply, ‘I want people in America to know about reconciliation. We still haven’t fully reconciled from our civil war in the 1860s.’
He’s a stocky man, most likely a soccer player in his youth. A razored part on the left side highlights his meticulously managed hair. He says he’s happy to meet an American who supports ‘our young nation’. His voice is slow, deep and soothing. I want to listen to him some more.
‘Actually, Mr Mawere, I’m just a graduate student, working on a PhD.’
‘Call me Comrade,’ he says. ‘We’re trying to scrap the formalism of the colonial days.’
‘Yes sir, Comrade Mawere.’
He turns to say a few words to a Bubba Smith-sized man standing behind him who must be all of six-foot-eight. ‘I’ll arrange for you to interview the Prime Minister,’ Mawere says to me.
Visions of sitting next to Mugabe in one of those high-ceilinged rooms at State House drive even the image of Florence in her flowing blue dress out of my mind.
‘I don’t know how to thank you, Comrade Mawere.’
‘Start by
