‘What you say, Massa?’

‘Never mind, Zirigu.’

.  .  .  .  .

‘If you ask them, why ten years after independence, some of us still have to be slaves, they say you are nuts to ask questions like that.’

‘You are getting your definitions wrong. By what stretch of imagination does a steward-boy or a housemaid become a slave?’

‘Was it not enough that whole sections of us were bred so that all they could do was to minister to the needs of white men and women? Doing soul-killing jobs? Do they have to do them for us too?’

‘What are you talking about? It partially solves the unemployment problem. Or minimises it, at least. Can you imagine what would happen if all the house-boys and housemaids were not doing what they are doing?’

‘How about the pay?’

‘How about it?’

‘And anyway, most of them, especially the house-girls, are people’s relatives . . .’

‘Problems are solved only when you tackle them in all seriousness.’

‘Eh – captain, another beer, please.’

.  .  .  .  .

‘Massa, I must go to market now. I say I wan’ get good meat. What you go chop?’

‘I’ll eat anything you cook.’

‘Massa, you tink you go like fried fillet of calf? Or a braised lamb liver? Yes, here a good one. An escalope of veal with onions and fried potatoes.’

‘Zirigu, whom did you say you were going to cook for?’

‘Yourself, Massa.’

‘But that is not the food I eat.’

‘But ’e be white man chop.’

‘Zirigu, I no be white man. And that is the second time this morning I’ve told you that. And if you do it again, I’ll pack up and leave.’

Jesus, isn’t there anywhere on this bloody land one can have some blinking peace? Jesus . . . Lord I am sweating . . . God . . . see how I’m sweating. Jesus see how I’m sweating.

‘Massa, why you sweat so?’

‘It gets hot here early.’

‘Yes, make I open them windows.’

Jesus!

‘Massa, I beg. Don’t make so. I no wan’ vex you. This here chop, ’e be white man’s chop. ‘E be the chop I cook for all massas, for fifteen years. The Ministars, the party people who stay for here, the big men from the Ministries, the Unifartisy people, the big offisars from the army and police. . . . ’E be same chop, they chop, this white man chop.’

‘Zirigu, can’t you cook any food of the land? Don’t they sell things in that market with which you could make the food of this land?’

‘Yes. But I no fit cook your kind food. No, I no fit cook food of your area.’

‘How about the food of your area? Your food?’

‘I no fit cook that.’

‘Jesus. And you’ve been a cook steward here for all these years?’