‘Yes. But Massa. I know my job. Massa, don’t com’ make trouble for me. O, look, my hair don’ gone white. I no fit find another job. Who go look for my pickin’? I know how to cook, Massa, white man’s chop.’

‘That’s the problem. Listen. God forbid you should even think I’ll make trouble for you. In fact, that is not what I am talking about. But I’m just about beginning to understand. Gradually. You went into training, qualified and have been gaining experience all these years as a cook for white people. You do not know how to cook the food of the land because it is your food. And you are a man. And a man normally does not cook. But you cook the white man’s chop because that is white man’s chop, your job, not food. Or . . .’

‘Massa, God knows I know my job.’

‘Of course! As a man of the land and your wife’s husband you are a man and therefore you do not cook. As a black man facing a white man, his servant, you are a black, not a man, therefore you can cook.’

‘Massa, Massa. You call me woman? I swear, by God, Massa, this na tough. I no be woman. God forbid!’

‘Ah, Zirigu. I am only thinking something out. Ah . . . God is above, I no call you woman. Soon I go talk all for you.’

‘But Massa, you no know. Don’t call me woman.’

‘No, I will not.’

.  .  .  .  .

When a black man is with his wife who cooks and chores for him, he is a man. When he is with white folk for whom he cooks and chores, he is a woman. Dear Lord, what then is a black man who cooks and chores for black men?

.  .  .  .  .

‘Listen Zirigu, does the Mother your wife know how to cook the food of the land?’

‘Yes. But not of your area.’

‘No. Of your area.’

‘Yes!’

‘Okay, can you charge me the normal rate for supper and ask the Mother to count my mouth in for the supper this evening?’

‘W-h-a-t? What you say Massa? What?’

‘I say, Zirigu, can the Mother count my stomach in for the evening’s meal?’

‘Massa. I no wan’ play?’

‘I am not playing.’

‘Heh? God. You mean you go eat tuo?’

‘Why not? At home I eat banku. Isn’t it the same? One of rice, the other of corn? Aren’t they all farina? Semolina? Whatever?’

‘Massa, I no wan’ trouble.’

‘What kind of trouble do you think you are going to get? Perhaps you think I’m a child?’

‘I mean your tommy.’

‘What about my tummy? Do you get tummy trouble when you eat your wife’s food? What are you saying, man? And anyway, I can look after myself in that kind of way. I am a medical doctor, you know.’