I wrote the first draft of this novel as a Morland Scholar in 2019. I thank Miles Morland and his foundation for giving African writers the opportunity and means to focus on a writing project. To the foundation’s manager, Mathilda Leigh, thank you for never commenting on the quality of the 10,000 words I sent you every month. Giles Foden, thank you so much for not only making sense of the extremely rough first drafts of the story, but for also seeing its potential and providing great encouragement. I also thank you for putting me in touch with Bryony Rheam who also endured an early draft of the novel and gave her feedback. Thank you Bryony.

Many thanks to Bongani Ngqulunga and his generosity in offering me two residential stays at the Johannesburg Institute for Advanced Study – the first in 2020 as a writing fellow, the second in 2021 as a writer-in-residence. My time at JIAS allowed me to polish the manuscript. Layla Brown, NoViolet Bulawayo, Amber Day, Pier Paolo Frassinelli, Michele Kekana, Fazil Moradi, Nthabiseng Motsemme, Francis Musoni, Charl-Pierre Naudé, Mphuthumi Ntabeni, Lebohang Pheko, Nisha Rayaroth, Olivia Rutazibwa, Amaha Senu, Malebo Sephodi, Carien Smith, Zukiswa Wanner – thank you all for the conviviality. Malume, Seaka Sibanda, thank you for feeding us, counseling us and ensuring that all was well at JIAS. Emelia Kamena, Vanessa Kennedy, Maria Matla, Johanna Menyoko, Sivuyile Momoza and Reshmi Singh, thank you for all your hard work in ensuring the smooth running of the institute.

I owe a long-overdue debt of gratitude to the staff at the Bulawayo branch of the National Archives of Zimbabwe. Sindiso Bhebhe (Principal Archivist), Trevor Gumbo (Librarian), Emma Ndlovu (Administration Officer), Acquiline Bunure (Secretary), Zanele Sibanda (Receptionist) and Tafara Hove (Intern), thank you all for your tireless assistance over the years. No query has ever been too big or too small, too vague or too specific for you to help with, which is every researcher’s dream.

And lastly, I will end it the way my grandmother began it – by telling a story. There once was a man who rode a bicycle up the dusty road on which I lived. He wore a hat and his trouser legs were pegged. He was one of many such men – returning home from a hard day’s work – seemingly unremarkable. He smiled at me, took off his hat in greeting and then continued riding towards the sunset. I thank him for that lasting memory.

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